


Love the Sinner: Embrace the Sin

by PaperAnn



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst and Fluff and Smut, Demon Dean Winchester, Domestic Fluff, Established Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester, Hopeful Ending, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Sam Winchester on Demon Blood, Season/Series 10, Top Dean Winchester/Bottom Sam Winchester, Wincest Big Bang 2019 (Supernatural)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-27
Updated: 2019-10-27
Packaged: 2020-11-28 12:20:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 30,487
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20966465
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PaperAnn/pseuds/PaperAnn
Summary: While Sam and Dean were raised as hunters, it was their choice to continue the fight against evil—their duty to protect those who couldn’t protect themselves. Time and time again, they’d save the world, fight the monsters, but in truth: Destiny doomed the Winchesters from the start.Why else was Sam born as Lucifer’s true vessel, spiraling into a demon blood addiction so easily and spectacularly—unless an inherent darkness resided inside him all along?How could Dean wield the Mark of Cain, only passed down through biblical blood and honed by those few deemed 'worthy'—unless he wasn’t a natural-born sadistic killer?In a sad twist of irony, the Winchesters were always fated to be monsters, no matter how they tried to even the scales.Aboard a sinking ship, they chose insanity—Dean scraping together broken parts to stay afloat while Sam kept thinking love conquers all—maybe it was time to let go, to drown.Givingindidn’t necessarily meangiving up. Even if it hurt, there could be another life waiting for them. Together. Anything was better than being trapped in this cycle—whether it was cowardice or courage it didn’t matter—someone had to break it, before it broke them.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> It was a JOY to be paired with the fantastic and lovely [2blueshoes](https://archiveofourown.org/users/2blueshoes) as my partner this year! THIS ARTIST is exactly that, the pieces are stunning and I'm so grateful for someone who really went above and beyond for me and the fic! Love you, thank you, you're the best, my dear!!
> 
> YOU KNOW you have the best human in the world when they'll deal with your multi-shipping ass and help you with ANYTHING, I have exactly that in my babe, [Miss Fish](http://whataboutthefish.tumblr.com/). I have no idea what I'd do without you, I love you to the moon and back <3
> 
> **Ann's Notes:** This was written for the 2019 Wincest Big Bang! And, first and foremost, this is a dark fic with dark themes. Yes, I cannot write anything that doesn't include fluff and smut, but for the most part: prepare for Winchester angst/feels surrounding the Mark of Cain and demon!Dean saga and some touchy themes that I WILL disclose at the beginning of the chapters for TWs. Enjoy! xoxo

  
  


Sam had put all his eggs in one basket. He’d shot through his list of options, from Plan A to Z. If that old Men of Letters ritual hadn’t worked, he may be struggling to move a body instead of fighting against his own clothes.

Instead of annoyance aimed at his stupid injured arm—right now—Sam would be fucking destroyed.

Today marked the first time in months that Sam could breathe.

He’d been using his decades-old training to hunt in a way he never imagined. Yes, he was tracking a demon, but the demon was his own his brother.  
  
Desperate and spiraling, Sam had done things he wished he could forget.  
  
This always happened, why should this time be any different? There was nothing he _ wouldn’t _ do for his brother. Along the way to get to Dean, Sam’s means and determination turned reckless, selfish, acting with more malice and disregard for human life than even the demon his brother had become.  
  
Emotionally, Sam had been on a rollercoaster—soaring high and plunging down into wreckage, over and over.

Dean had the Mark of Cain. Having a front row seat to it’s Biblical power hurt Sam every day: The Mark was winning and taking Dean with it. But there were other days his brother seemed stronger than it’s hold over him, when Sam thought they actually had a fighting chance.  
  
Maybe he was delusional but when they were together, he felt they could take on the world—what was another curse?  
  
Until he had to watch Dean killed in front of him and he could feel that same blade's shadow stabbing through his own chest.  
  
Sam blamed himself, that he wasn’t fast enough. He blamed Dean because he was too pigheaded. He blamed Crowley for getting him into this mess in the first goddamn place.  
  
Instead of allowing grief to swallow him up, he held onto fury. Reminding himself they’d died before. They could get out of this. Everything would work out, somehow, someway—   
  
And Dean had, in fact, risen from the dead. Except, Sam _wasn't _prepared for this plot twist.  
  
He awoke a full-fledged Knight of Hell.  
  
One that left a goodbye note. One that abandon him at the bunker. One that Sam would stop at nothing to find. 

Sam always had...an obsessive love.  
  
In his mind, every casualty on his journey—his _ hunt—_was justified. Every innocent harmed during his mission was collateral along the way. Necessity. To his single-minded goal in the moment.  
  
Looking back, he was at odds with himself. Torn between beating himself up over the past or feeling relief in the present was difficult when he'd accomplished what everyone said was impossible. Couldn't he allow a win to be simply that? A win?  
  
God, in retrospect—Sam acted...well, soulless again. It made him wonder that, in the right circumstances, how much did his conscience even factor into his decisions? If at all? The ability to flip the switch so easily should have sent up red flags, being able to detach was the shit sociopaths were made of and Sam knew right from wrong—   
  
Except, unlike other predators—unlike his stint sans-soul—he didn’t have an excuse. Sam was all there. He had the _ ability _ to feel empathy, to do right, sometimes he didn’t. He’d made his choices, and the worst part of it all— 

Dean knew everything.  
  
Every skeleton he’d just as easily (and eagerly) stuff in the closet, to forget, was out there. What was one more added to the pile? He felt justified hiding away his dirty laundry and fuck-all mistakes: because he_ had to_. Sam would do anything and everything, if it meant he could be with Dean. Yeah, they had trust issues but maybe the lies were worth it.  
  
...He only wished ugly trail he'd left in his wake remained secret.

What if he was hated for what he’d done to get Dean back? The darkness in Dean already taunted Sam, told him he was worse than a demon.

What did Dean (no longer the Knight) think, with his humanity reawakened? Would this be another thing they swept under the rug or a heavy tension lingering between them?

Sam didn’t want to know—he certainly didn't stick around long enough to find out.  
  
That's the main reason he veered for his room in the bunker. Any other normal night would've end with them, together, on Dean’s beloved memory foam. The distance left uncertainty.  
  
Part of Sam couldn't shake the fresh image of being chased with a goddamn hammer, whether Dean was cured or not.

Had that left Sam chilled, or was it 'his' drafty room? Wow...he couldn't recall the last time he’d stayed here. Sam used this place for glorified storage—it held all the pieces of his life, but never his presence.  
  
The lack of use left the room both impersonal and a haphazard mess. He never felt the need to really make it his own, because Dean _ had _ nested. Why spend any time and effort when Dean tugged Sam into his room every single night.

It had all the charm of a prison cell—_maybe _ a lackluster dorm room.  
  
His clothes were folded in the chest of askew drawers, and his disguises warranting a ‘professional’ label hung in the closet. Some of the books (both lore and true crime novels) had piled up on the dresser and his laptop was half-open on the nightstand.  
  
That’s where the ‘niceties’ ended. While the War Room carried the brunt of his turmoil, other parts of the bunker weren't immune to his rampages. Maybe Dean had been the first to tear through the halls, but Sam had picked up where he left off—he'd been doing the same for months and his damage was nothing to scoff at.  
  
Papers from failed spellwork had been ripped from the binding, wadded up and hurled across the room. The trashcan was overflowing and surrounded by demolished priceless artifacts (that would've otherwise been handled with care) and, really, anything Sam could get his hands on _ to break_.  
  
A shattered mirror had been swept to the side (he was impressed that he had enough motivation to find a broom and do _that_) and only one electrical socket worked. Sam had a tendency to rip things from the wall, plugging in items that used too much current, and when they shorted out—destroying it altogether felt better than fixing jackshit.  
  
God, he had some work to do...an overhaul, was more like it.  
  
Sam felt a pull to clean this mess up. It was one of many, and since he didn’t know where he stood with Dean—this was something he could handle and guarantee progress.   
  
Out of the million ways Sam imagined getting him back, this wasn’t one of them. It didn’t feel like the victory he pictured every sleepless night. Of course not—why would it? Sam was made this way, he'd been born to screwed up.

Ironically, the _ single _ mess within his power to fix (menial, thoughtless cleaning) seemed even further out of reach—his damn arm was making easy crap impossible!  
  
This had to be Fate laughing at him.  
  
The fact he’d hurt himself in the stupidest way kept coming back to mock him. As if that hadn't been humiliating enough, when he thought he was healing from his sloppy demon run-in, just when he was ready to kiss the sling goodbye: _Cole _ happened. And here he went, all over _again_.   
  
Right before Sam could taste freedom, the injury working its way from damaged to tender: _Dean _ happened.   
  
All over again, the searing pain was a tell-tale wrecking ball, lighting up and breaking down all hope of progress and recovery. Sam knew the news, it was torture—time to start over!  
  
Now fresh, (three in a_ fucking row_) each new sting felt insanely sharper as he attempt to move and maneuver. It had Sam worried. What if he’d gone beyond aggravating an old wound this time? What if he’d fucked it up _ more _ than before?  
  
Did it matter?  
  
It was a proven fact: Winchesters were their own doctors and patients—and until floss, duct tape and liquor stopped doing the job, they’d stay the path.

Flopping back to the bed and passing out was so tempting. All he wanted to do was call it quits, but Sam needed to change out of this sweat-soaked flannel. Get out of these jeans, and then _ truly _ rest. What _could use_ was a damn _coma_—he felt he’d earned it—no one needed him for a few years, right?   
  
Jesus, _ why _did this shit _have to be_ busted on his right side—!

Fumbling through drawers left handed elevated his weariness, his annoyance. Sam mentally ordered himself to slow down—he knew the score, that shit wouldn't magically get better—nothing laid ahead of him but frustration if he didn’t gather his composure.  
  
“How did it happen?”  
  
Rattled—to the point of physically jumping up in alarm—was the triggering moment for Sam to realize: for so long, all he'd known was silence.  
  
The motionless bunker, drives devoid of music, motels where Sam never bothered looking for a remote...he'd lived this way, the sound of nothing was normal—he'd gone without for so long. 

Until now. Thank God, Dean was here to break through it.

Still, Sam was surprised to see him up and around. Given Dean’s reactions to the injections, it made more sense that he'd be laid out on his ass. Even then—even awake—the last thing Sam imagined he'd want would be stopping by for a visit. Dealing with him...looking him in the eyes.  
  
Here he was: leaning in a doorway that Sam could have sworn he’d shut, maybe even _ locked_.  
  
But no lock had ever stopped Dean before...they had yet to run across one he couldn't pick, or—if the situation called for it—break.

“When Cas and I were following your trail, we thought we might’ve caught a whiff of a case along the way." Straightening up, he cleared his throat and answered as evenly as possible. "This cursebox was at the center, a lot of parties were interested—we located it first. The plan was making sure the box was secured, tucked away and eventually, brought back, here. ...Until it wasn't. It was stupid, sloppy warding and we got caught off guard, some demons jumped us... Uh, _ me_.”  
  
The last person Sam wanted to see his title fight, headlining _him_, versus his _own wardrobe_, was Dean. He sped up his attempts to find any ideally loose (if not ancient) shirt. Slamming the drawer was supposed to be the end of it. But with Sam using his weight without dexterity, the impact amplified and backfired. The dresser's unexpected quake left him jarred and spatting curses, Sam trying to mask his wince.

Dean lurched forward on instinct, but held himself back at the last moment. Instead, he crossed his arms—taking it further and tucking them tight against his chest—with the comment, “Damn, you’d think Cas would’ve done a better job lookin’ out for you.”

“We were both a little…preoccupied. I bet you can probably guess about what.” Sam took the shirt with him and tossed it onto the bed, joining his laid out boxers and sweatpants.

“Still, you were sloppy, you—”

No. This _ wasn’t _ happening. As much as Sam wanted to see Dean, talk to him, soak up every second they were together, revel in things being back to normal—he couldn’t handle _ this _right now.

Sam whipped around and demanded, “Did you come in here to harass me about being reckless? Because being reckless was what brought you back to me! I’d do it a million times! Spare me a lecture when you know it too!" The barrier was gone, he was too tired to filter his words and it took scathing ice to make his point. "You _knew_ all your bluffing, your threats, all your _literal_ kicking and screaming was useless. We both know I'd never abandon you. Deep down, you _knew_ what I'd do and how far I'd go to save you. And I don't know if you _wanted_ to kill me _because_ I'd do anything, but, _fuck—"_  
  
Both exasperation and clarity lit Sam's way to a resolution. "—when you _were_ trying to kill me, I fought a helluva lot harder because _you knew_ that the only way around me was _through me_. Next time, try harder, because I won't stop, not while I'm still breathing. What's careful or reckless doesn't matter, I don’t give a shit! And I don’t want to hear it. _Not now._”

He sucked in a deep breath and deliberately focused elsewhere.  
  
There wasn’t time for Dean to drag him down, not while he geared himself up for the entire step-by-painful-step_ process _of removing the sling and the harness around him.

Dean had other plans.  
  
_ Goddammit_.

“No, Sam, I...crap. I didn’t come in here to harass you, I swear. I came in here because I was scared that—” The small skip in his voice was more than enough to divert all of Sam’s attention back towards his brother, surprised by the sudden change.  
  
It wasn’t just Dean he’d wanted back in one piece. He was praying (maybe one day) he’d be able to see the old Dean—the Dean who fought like hell, until there was was nothing left—having gone head-to-head against the Mark until the bitter end. The one who wore his heart on his sleeve, who took chances, and Sam thought he may be looking at him.  
  
“I had to find you, you know.” Dean blurted out the words like a confession: “I was scared after your ‘work’ was done—after that shitshow was all over—you’d hit the road and leave. Leave _ me_.” Tentatively, almost like he was trying to make conversation, he forced a chuckle, “Uh, I found you. So I’m here, I want to help. Bum arm like that? You gotta need help, something, right?”

Dean was searching, desperate for something to cling to, needing a task. Sam could tell right now: this was about redemption and companionship. His confidence while gaining back _ who _ he was and his grasp on reality, after living two versions of himself—it had to be shot.  
  
Figuring out his place had to be like sand slipping between his fingers, insanity could be knocking at the door—but, dammit, that’s what Sam was here for.

Dean needed to be reminded underneath all the death and his rebirth as a demon: he was good. Sam would prove it to him. Gladly.  
  
Not just once, but through multiple experiences, Sam knew what it was like: Dean’s struggle with the same questions was like a reflection of his own. And (even though it shouldn't)…that familiar plight gave him hope.  
  
It might not be fair Sam had a head start, but they weren't idling anymore—it was solace enough. He recognized the second Dean offered something of himself, after all Sam’s chasing, neither one could be themselves without the other.  
  
While they looked inward to battle most of their demons—the most difficult and cut-throat fights were personal—ever since they started sharing their own darkness: the war had been easier to fight. This moment gave Sam strength and faith, remembering how they were stronger together. Forget backtracking or idling—with Dean, there was always a shot to move forward.  
  
He was happy to extend an olive branch if they could pick up where they left off...  
  
—God, he’d throw him the entire _ tree—_

Sam also knew innately, he couldn’t coddle him either. That wouldn’t do either of them any good and things were still tentative. Sam could still taste the fear that rose in his throat—not for his own life, but the terror he’d never get his brother back.  
  
After death, wrong turns, countless rejections and the facing down the shocking possibility of losing him during the purification…God. It lingered like a slimy coat of liquid sulfur on his skin.

It wasn’t the urgency in Dean’s eyes that was so beautiful, it was the stunning, human, glowing shades of green Sam had naturally fallen in love with, and had foolishly taken for granted.

With a half-smile, he admitted slowly, “You’re right. This bum arm is giving me trouble,” and Dean rushed in like he’d freshly snapped the bone.

Hell, the way it throbbed, he _ could’ve _broken it, but Dean’s…_enthusiasm _ was better than morphine.

“Just tell me what to do.” His volume fell hushed, and Sam realized their current proximity—_wow_, it had been so long since he could reach out and touch Dean like this. ...Now it was all he could think about.

He didn’t realize he’d ordered, “Kiss me,” until he’d already said it.

Dean’s gaze dropped to his lips, then back up to meet Sam’s eyes and he actually smiled. “We still talkin’ about your arm, or you?”

“_Shit_. Sorry, I didn’t mean—”

Before he could take it back, Sam’s cheeks were cradled by palms as Dean pulled their lips together.

His jaw dropped in surprise and that worked to Dean’s advantage—not willing to waste another second before surprising Sam again: this time with an outpouring of passion. Dean’s intent was clear—unquestionably—imploring a desperate ‘I missed you,’ and ‘I love you.’  
  
When Dean’s urgency and Sam’s unrelenting search to _ bring him home _combined, no words needed sayings: the resonating 'click'—knowing they were better together—it carried deeper than what the ears could hear. The sound of the locking pieces, all fitting together, settled back into their DNA. This was right where they belonged, defying the odds.

Once Dean regained his humanity—and his soul—both ached to come back to Sam.  
  
_Of course_, that’s why the conversation had been awkward. He'd been drawn into his room with no plans, only the ache of knowing his missing piece was close...but not close enough.  
  
Sam got it—he acted without thinking all the time, it was a double-edged sword. Sometimes it ended up working out, other times they shot (stabbed, maimed—you pick) themselves in the foot: Dean’s forced attempt at conversation may have begun rough, but it led them here.  
  
Hearts racing, temperatures rising, clothes a fucking nuisance when what they craved was painfully obvious.

Honestly, Dean’s restraint was downright shocking.  
  
A control—this...delicacy—kicked in when Sam gasped out from something other than pleasure (while it _was_ plentiful) but from his arm being jostled.  
  
As his demeanor shifted into familiar territory, it happened at the worst time: the switch flipping to Big-Brother Mode.

Slowing them both, loathed to retreat and lingering long enough to brush his kiss against Sam’s temple and forehead, Dean whispered, “Thank you. For not giving up on me.”

Breathless chuckles and a stolen kiss were a prelude to Sam’s, “You know I never will. I don’t know any other way. And I don’t want to.”

“Neither do I.” Dean swept the fallen, renegade hairs from Sam’s brow and asked, “So do we...hit it and—wham-bam!—get this entire thing off? —Well, not _hit it_, hit it...”  
  
Having been thoroughly distracted by Dean’s mouth, Sam had no idea what the hell he was talking about until Dean began circling him and mumbling to himself.  
  
Sam’s confusion finally cleared when he realized his brother was examining the new bane of his existence, experimentally poking a clasp. And soon, when he proceeded to take on the task himself, carefully removing the sling while stabilizing Sam’s shoulder, the Dean's scattered pep-talk (that Sam couldn't make _any_ damn sense of) made...well, sense.

He moved with care and gentleness—a side hidden away and saved for a small, lucky few—as he unbuttoned Sam’s shirt. Dean continued glancing at his forearm and wrist, safely tugging the flannel away from his left. Once free, he wound up to gather the slack he needed, meticulously peeling it away from Sam’s injury.  
  
And, _ damn_, that may be the first time he hadn’t wanted to punch a friggin wall after taking off his shirt! Who knew a _lack_ of suffering could bring sweeping, palpable relief? 

Before Dean went any further, he groaned and raised the battered limb into the light. “Did you get this looked at, Sammy? Beyond our usual field-dressings?” The more he studied the black, blue and red, the more emphasis (and apprehension) he pushed into the words.  
  
Okay, even Sam had to admit the swelling was pretty ugly...

“Never had time.” He shrugged, the deja vu of being a reprimanded kid again was weighted.

Dean could read between the lines and actually dropped it (thank fuck for small miracles), deciding he’d rather kiss the frown off Sam's face. “Hey, we can do that tomorrow. It’s been a long day, huh?” He snatched up the brace and fastened it before Sam could protest, explanation resolute: “No reason to waste time putting on another shirt—_I’m_ gonna keep you warm tonight.”

And, fuck, Sam had never heard sweeter words.

That was his reason for all the pathetic, stammering, “S-sounds good,” when Dean’s focus lowered and he changed tasks: unbuttoning and unzipping his jeans.

With a fleck of mischief, he wondered, “Some reason you’re playin' shy in front of me?” and hooked his fingers in the front of Sam’s pants and his boxers. His tugging was playful—purely to garner a reaction—and because of that, yeah, _maybe _Sam blushed. Only because drawing attention and trying to cause a fuss made it awkward!

“Nothing you haven’t seen before,” he grumbled, and used his good hand to steady himself—Dean taking that sign as approval to haul off every remaining clothing scrap below his waist on down to the floor.

Jesus, it was so goddamn cold—the Bunker always was—Sam shivered as he stepped out from the final, flimsy shield his body had left.  
  
Cursing at Dean was tempting. He wanted to chew him out _more_ when the only thing he returned was the clean pair of boxers. Did he want him to freeze to death!? Although, knowing they’d be together tonight was enough to keep him warm—but only for so long. He needed to move his ass, make good on that promise.

Dean jumped back on his feet, grin a mile wide, when he finally asked aloud, “You gonna let me take you home tonight?” like a cheesy pick-up like. Which was so completely and utterly _Dean_.

“No,” Sam stated sarcastically, “I thought I’d just stand here all night.”

This moment, right here—of Dean reaching out and taking his hand—it was so innocent. Yet, a flash and a voice in his head demanded of Sam: never forget, but he was two steps ahead. He was committing every second of this night to memory, but he agreed: _this_, he'd cherish forever.  
  
Facing the even icier drafts of the Bunker’s hallways weren’t daunting as Dean led them away from his distant, impersonal room. Sam was headed back towards the one place—with the one person—who felt like home. Instead of winter, the frost broke and Sam was walking into the sunlight.  
  
With one blatantly obvious different. A third party’s voice:

“Oh. Neither of you have isolated yourselves, that’s very good news. How are you feeling, Dean? Sam—why aren’t you wearing clothes? I didn’t think we were stocked with enough alcohol for you to be intoxicated quite _ this _fast. It was on the shopping list,” and both of them screeched to a halt in their tracks.

Sam (now flushed red with embarrassment from head to toe) turned to look over his shoulder while Dean looked at Sam—trying his damnedest not to crack up.

“Are you drunk, Sam?” Dean asked him sarcastically—  
  
—While Sam fought everything in him, demanding to smack Dean upside the head and make a break for it.  
  
He could _ feel _Castiel’s quizzical and careful eye scrutinizing him, trying to deduce an answer to Dean's question—all while Sam's itch to cut and run was gaining in steam.

“No, no, I’m not. I never actually made it to the liquor cabinet,” he told both of them, and specifically to Dean, “I told Cas after I made you something to eat, that was my next move. Finishing whatever was even left, hence the, uh, shopping list. You…interrupted me.”

Dean smoothly agreed, with, “I’d say. But more importantly: where's this home-cooked meal I was promised?”

“I’m still quite confused,” the angel piped up.

“Don’t be confused, Cas,” Dean assured him with a smile, finally (fucking _ finally_) spurring them into motion again, “Everything’s good as it can be. We‘re going to bed.”

“Oh. In that case, have a nice evening.” Castiel accepted his words at face value and offered a nod (he was always strangely okay with...strange), but right before he pivoted back around towards the War Room, he offered, "If it's any consolation, dinner would've likely been questionable lunch meat, pita chips and M&Ms. It's for the best you skipped the meal,"and then walked off—like it was just another day.  
  
As the angel's shadow turned the corner, Dean couldn't help himself from repeating the phrase, "Questionable lunch meat?" with piqued curiosity.  
  
At least Sam had an answer for that: he chuckled the answer, "Smeared expiration date. And, even though we're pretty positive it's been jammed in the back for years: guess what?" Sam shook his head, playing to Dean's absolute glee, "I guess to an angel—rotting meat looks like rotting meat and molecules taste like molecules. We've got Heaven in our pocket but it's no help when we're fighting bologna. Which is why it's—"  
  
"—Questionable, indeed..." Dean nodded with satisfaction. That's when a quirked, impish grin tugging across his features and, after a beat, he pointed out, "You know what's _not_ a question..."  
  
Oh. Yeah, they did. And just like like—

Like a gun went off at the races, Sam and Dean took off at full speed. It got Sam’s circulation rushing, sprinting the final leg of distance while holding in their laughter. Bursting into Dean’s room was better than crossing a finish line.

Operating on muscle memory, Dean shut the door behind him, listened for the ancient creak when flipping the doorknob and lock levers to know it was secure, and turned off the lights. Tackling Sam to the bed was always part of a nightly ritual, the different ways and approaches varied.  
  
Tonight was unique, special, the reasons were endless. And tonight, he had to be mindful of certain physical limitations.  
  
But Dean was _ always _devoted to being the instigator, he handled his self-appointed role with enthusiasm. ‘Tackling’ became maneuvering, became manipulating, became needing to be body to body—

“Dude! You are freezing!” Dean ripped off his own shirt and hauled the covers tightly around them, ordering, “Get in here.”

When pulled against Dean’s chest, the sensation of how much hotter Dean’s blood ran than Sam’s suckered him in—he melted and let himself _ enjoy _ something, for once. With a happy sigh, the addition of Dean’s hands rubbing up and down his back were welcomed.

His blissful ignorance was gone too soon. It vanished with Dean’s comment, “You’ve lost weight,” serving as another stark reminder he didn’t need.

Like he assumed Sam randomly went fucking blind when Dean took off? Or suffered brain damage?  
  
_ Of _ fucking _ course_, Sam knew the facts all too well. He didn’t need a scale (or Dean) to tell him—he hated what looked back with every fucking glimpse in the mirror. It wasn’t numbers or water weight, it was muscle—lately, Sam didn’t recognize himself in mind, body _ and _soul. He’d taken a major hit, but—

He _ would _ find his way back.  
  
There was a certainty in his veins—a once-shallow dream turned possibility, and as Dean kissed his forehead he knew he'd said the wrong thing.  
  
Instead of dropping it, like when he knew he’d fucked up earlier, Dean tried another approach.

“Say the word, Sammy,” Dean’s quiet words puffed against his ear, “Anyway I can make things better. No matter how stupid.” He shifted around, gaining better access to Sam’s neck—which he began kissing in earnest. “Bet it’s been _ real _ tricky…doing much’a anything, let alone anything _ fun _without’a right hand for grip, huh?”

In the midst of all his turmoil, _that_ being on his list of problems was _ so absurd_ Sam actually snickered.

“Doing ‘much of anything fun’ without _you _in general has been real tricky,” he clarified and heaved out a long, dramatic sigh. “And I don’t need you to—”

“Shut up. ‘Don’t need,’ _nothing_.” He’d moved again—yet, the room was so dark, Sam could only determine where Dean was by touch. It wasn’t until his knees rose that Sam realized he was boxed in, Dean hovering over top. “Can I tell you something? And you gotta promise not to get mad?”

God he hoped his brother would take him seriously, Sam tried to push everything he could into his words when he implored, “Dean, you can tell me anything. I’ll listen, and I won’t judge. I swear.”

It had to be something serious to earn a disclaimer. For Dean to pause, wait for a go-ahead, and be sure Sam was ready to hear it.  
  
Any other time, Dean notoriously shot first and asked forgiveness later, with words and actions—by his own admission, no less.

With Dean pressing their foreheads together, Sam reached out to loop his good arm around Dean’s neck to continue to draw on their closeness.  
  
No matter how long it took, he’d wait for Dean to come around on his own time, although it was on baited breath. Assuring him through body language everything was okay. Promising he was there, a reminder he’d love him, no matter what.

“I-I…thought about you. All the damn time. Even though I shouldn’t have…” Dean was slow to admit, and Sam’s stomach began to tighten with every added word. “I thought about finding you, too. So help me, Sam, I think the last tiny scraps of humanity held me back.”

Cautiously, gingerly selecting each of his words, Sam wondered, “What do you mean, your _humanity_ held you back? It...kept you away from me?”

“You know...how I feel. That love, it didn’t go away. It…warped. Into something sick. Wondering how I could have you. Possess you. Make you mine and keep you. It…_fuck—_” Dean stalled out. 

Fucking hell, where he once had patience, Sam’s curiosity was killing him—he _ needed to know_, or he’d go mad. “Hey, don't worry, it makes sense. It’s not like a psychologist would call what _ I _ was doing healthy, and I was human. You weren’t in control, Dean, you—”

“I wondered if I could get you hooked again. If it’d still take; like what happened with Famine. Make you depend on me, and only me. Keep you on a chain, coming back for a fix. Maybe you’d love me the way I was, then,” he blurted out all at once.   
  
The words tumbled so quickly that it took Sam a moment to realize—

“The blood…you thought—_demon _blood?” he was speaking at the same pace as his brain’s comprehension, the words spilled out while his mind played catch-up.

“I’m sorry,” Dean uttered, his nose brushing the length of Sam’s neck and slowly mouthing at the hinge of his jaw. “_I’m sorry, _ Sammy.”

To say that the thought was both baffling and terrifying was an understatement. 

Dean’s hand mirrored his mouth, as his tongue flickered out and traced the shell of Sam’s ear, his touch sculpted the shape of Sam’s chest. The words were abrasive, but the way Dean held him, handled him—it was tender and sweet. So _Dean_.

_ His Dean_.

His words made all the sense in the world, why he pleaded, “That’s one’a the reasons I’m so sorry. Let me prove it to you—”

And if Sam was in his shoes?

If he’d been fighting these thoughts, living with this constant battle (and winning it, as a fucking demon, staying away like Dean had) Dean had won what no other could. Sam didn’t feel like a prize, not at the end of all this—but once your world had been turned upside down _ twice—_  
  
The vertigo became second nature, the simple truth was they returned on their axis, spinning in the _right_ direction again and—

It provoked something fierce to stir in Sam when he ordered: “You’ve got nothing to prove. You’re so hard on yourself when the things you do are goddamn incredible. But…thank you. Fuck, I would’ve done _ anything _to be with you, I'd never last.” He realized with a sudden jolt, “You probably saved me.”

Dean was moved by conviction when he told Sam, “You’re stronger than that, you—”

But, Sam, himself, trembled, realizing, “No. I-I don’t think I am.”

That’s when their mouths crashed together. Where Dean’s kiss was as desperate as the admission, “I never thought I’d have this again,” and held on like it was the first and the last time he was able. 

After a revelation like that, after the bombshell knowledge of how bullet-proof Dean’s loyalty, his love for Sam, was—_fuck—_Sam was overwhelmed, needing to thank him, knowing beyond the shadow of a doubt: he would’ve drowned himself.  
  
They were only winding up—the surge felt like a hurricane after a drought—they both welcomed the storm. The swirling of tongue and teeth, legs wrapping around one another—

_Goddammit_! Sam cursed out abruptly—his stupid fucking arm—!

Thank Christ, Dean wasn’t deterred. He may have refined his approach, but nothing was getting between them. Not now. Hopefully, never again.

As Dean nipped and sucked down his body, he had Sam thoroughly distracted—clueless that his new boxers had vanished until the bitter cold tingled every part of him. For that very reason, he welcomed Dean’s hot and hungry mouth, lapping and circling his dick with a pleasure-filled gasp. And when Dean began sucking eagerly at his cock head, Sam’s hips rolled upward, showing how bad he needed more—

Dean retreated for a breath and licked his lips, voice downright sinful, “You taste so fucking good.”

“Bet I feel better,” Sam struggled to speak, breaking under the magic of his brother’s tongue. “You wanna take that wager?”

The glint in his eyes may have been devious, but pure, raw Dean...he was strikingly beautiful. So goddamn beautiful.  
  
Of course, he wouldn’t make it easy, Dean challenged him right back: “Maybe. If you can reach my nightstand. You’re lookin’ a little…strained.”

Another unexpected laugh perked up Sam’s cheeks, and he shook his head. Fucking hell, the word ’strained’ didn’t cover half of it.  
  
The task became that much more impossible when Dean took his entire dick down his throat and swallowed. Startling and fantastic, Sam shouted out—his hand fisting and rolling in the bed sheet before he remembered—  
  
...He was losing the bet he’d made _ already_.

Blindly, he began reaching. Waving his arm out and getting nothing but air, until eventually it slapped down onto the wood of the table. He almost cried in relief: one, because he hadn’t knocked the lamp off, and two, because he could finally trace the beveled edge to find the drawer.

With a hard jerk, the hinges made a shrill, ugly noise, but once the lube was in Sam’s hand, there was relief and success. 

Breath racing, Sam struggled to grunt out in panting breaths, “D-Dean, _ hey_, here—” in an attempt to pass it over, rather than chucking it at his head. The latter was tempting.

When Dean—finally!—paid attention, he took his sweet time. Meticulously working his way up, kissing Sam thoroughly as he took the bottle.  
  
After he slicked his fingers, Dean leaned on his side and used his forearm to balance. His focus on Sam was enough to make him blush. And if _ that _ didn’t do it, Dean’s husky timbre explaining, “This is just the beginning. Of me makin’ this up to you,” while his touch circled around Sam’s hole _certainly _did.

A harsh inhale got trapped in his lungs, holding on wasn’t from the fear of Dean pushing in, but this...otherworldly feeling, instead. Like this was too good to be true. Maybe Sam was caught in a fantasy. Weighing his options between delusions and death, because—

Dean knew him too well.

In a flash, he caught wind of it, deciding to anchor himself right where he'd been. Dean had a knack for seeing right through him—sometimes he’d call him out, other times he’d just...fix things. Tonight was one of those times.  
  
After their time apart, after the chase, the constant disappointment, and the idea there may not be a happy ending, Sam needed proof this was real. Dean did just that—with passionate lips that sealed with Sam's, frantically and shamelessly—yet, giving him enough space to twist, move, and settle as Dean continued between his legs.

Working Sam open and pliable was an undertaking on its own, it had been so long, much longer than the time it took for Sam to him Dean down.  
  
Even before Metatron had taken Dean away from him, they weren’t in the best place. When the Mark began darkening Dean’s soul, he’d already started to pull away, fuck, even when they—no.  
  
No. Sam _ would _savor every moment being taken apart, replacing old memories with new ones.

That time was nothing like this. It had been rough, impulsive, completely thoughtless and near-callous. Sam thought he’d have to live with _ that _ memory as his last. Forever looking back on how the final time he made love with his goddamn _ soul mate, _ he hadn’t shown any semblance of love for Sam at all. He needed to leave the past where it belonged.

While both were feverous, vibrating out of their skin with hunger, this…yeah, this couldn't be anything but love.

The Dean, once driven by the Mark, wouldn’t have thought twice about slamming into him. Or, if Sam was lucky, falsifying an illusion of care with a minute of rough, prodding fingers, to pretend he did.  
  
That Dean wouldn’t bother keeping them close—a habit that had grown into something as natural as breathing—psychically feeling one another’s skin as a place they’d always silently taken solace in, since the beginning.  
  
He wouldn’t have given a shit about Sam’s injury. It was a toss up as to whether he’d treat him like damaged goods or ignore it altogether—and Sam would let him.  
  
That Dean…wouldn’t have this warm glow behind his eyes, still vibrant, though hazy with arousal. This was where he felt safe.  
  
It happened a couple times, the first when Sam went away to Stanford. He realized he was hardwired to feel and live in the moment—but only with his brother by his side. Each time the distance between them grew so did Sam's walls, it became glaringly apparent, this time more than any others. Thank fuck, everything was normal.  
  
When he broke from the kiss, Sam could read that question in Dean’s eyes, his fingers easily gliding and moving inside of him. As if there was even a question.

“Why aren’t you naked?” Sam demanded, trying to suppress his glee, languidly moving in time with Dean’s touch.

A wide grin cracked on his full, bite-swollen lips and he sat back to do just that. “Cheeky bitch.”

“Always,” Sam hummed and shivering, his impatience growing. “You’d think you’d do something about it.”

“You know damn well I will.” Smiling, he grabbed the lube once more to coat his cock.  
  
He proceeded to lean over Sam and neatly set it back on the nightstand.

Curiously, he didn’t have to do that, in fact—he never had. The bottle usually ended up on the floor, thrown halfway across the room, or lost in a pile of clothes. Sam knew damn well by eyeing Dean—a delicious sight, fisting his dick and spreading lube—he was buying time. Was it Sam’s place to demand why?

A frown gave him away, because Dean opened his mouth to say something, then restarted.  
  
Maybe Sam shouldn’t rush Dean’s words, but he _ was _ at his breaking point. Not only the chase, of righting all the wrongs—but because of Dean’s actions _ now_, he reached his breaking point, needy, desperate, he’d _snap_ if he wasn’t fucked and—  
  
Not this time. There was no fucking way, was he waiting.

A growl rumbled from the back of Sam’s throat as he surged forward, hooking his arm around Dean’s neck and hauling them together. Dean hadn’t expected it, grunting when they chests thumped and clearly stunned from the air knocked from his own. 

Sam refused to waste anymore time. They wasted too much.

Tired of Dean playing with his own cock, Sam reached down and seized control. With one well-placed shift of his pelvis and a guiding grasp, Sam had fucked half of Dean’s dick well beyond his tight rim and inside his hole.

“Fuck, _ Sammy_!” Dean choked out, and with one fiery stare, finished the job and bottomed out. “Warn a guy!”

He hovered for a second, kissing Sam’s damp forehead before they both slowly began antagonizing each other. Sam squeezing his muscles around Dean, grinding his hips, and loving each moment of pleasure the sketched across his features. Eventually, Dean (Sam knew _ the look—_he was giving himself another mental pep-talking) grabbed a hold of Sam’s knees to spread them, and cut directly to pounding him through the goddamn mattress.

Sam’s spine rolled off the bed from the jarring friction, the breakneck pace—he absolutely deserved it—and the price was better than he imagined.

The only thing missing, was Dean keeping a modest distance between them. He used Sam’s knees( then his hips for leverage) pulling him in and slamming his cock forward for the best kind of carnal sex. _Holy hell,_ did it work, Dean was fucking him so deep, he was rearranging his insides—it was phenomenal.

Except, the acute change was an elephant in the room.

They went from being so close, to...so far away.

Sam hoped the reason was as simple as positioning, or maybe Dean needed that reassurance Sam had: watching, seeing was believing that things were real, to prove it wasn’t a dream.

If that were the case, Sam could put on a hell of a show, right?

He felt his blood reaching its boiling point, his skin sparking with millions of fireworks ready to light up. Even better, Sam could see the same signs in Dean. The way his flush darkened and his freckles popped out against the coloring. His eyes growing heavy-lidded as he sucked his lower lip hard enough to bleed, all in an attempt to muffle those stunning sounds.

Sam watched Dean’s gaze, and where it went, he followed.

Memory foam didn’t give much spring to work with, he had to rely on his core—swiveling his hips the best he could when Dean’s thrusts accelerated. Sam most definitely caught sight of him licking his lips, and with that came a breathless gasp.

Fuck, he was so close, but he was determined to push Dean over the edge first—

Sam reached down to fist his own dick, only a few jerks for attention or else he‘d get off then and there. Precum oozed down his cock, all the way to his stomach, and he swiped his fingertips through. Just as he anticipated, Dean miserably failed to stifle this gasped moan, hyper aware of his every move.

With a wicked grin, Sam took advantage of his reach, smearing it across Dean’s lips. It was unsurprising when Dean chased after the taste, latching onto Sam’s wrist with an iron-clad force.  
  
Except, once Dean began to obsessively suck the cum from his fingers…Sam realized he’d sabotaged _ himself._

In an attempt to lure _ Dean _ in, to get _ him _off first, the sight unfolding before Sam provided that final goddamn rush and he was a writhing mess. Reeling in pleasure, begging for Dean’s arms, chanting his name, covering them both in cum, and—

It was mind blowing.

Sam couldn’t describe the pleasure when his body, head and heart combined: only that it reminded him of the first time. He was high, floating somewhere above them, but the brushing, tender sensation of lips on his neck, and a faint soreness between his legs told him that, yes, this was their homecoming.  
  
...that might have been the first time he truly believed it.

Hell, he must have been swept away and milking the rush for a long time, when he opened his eyes again, Dean was cleaning him up. With his tongue.

If Sam could go for a round two again, God, he absolutely would—but he was drained.  
  
His responses had been reduced to tingling and quivers.  
  
As his brain caught up, he mused over how Dean was always gracious when it came to blowjobs, never hesitant about dirty whispers in Sam’s ear. Like now. Telling him how much he loved the way he tasted and so much more. 

That was the motive behind Sam’s reasoning, when he tried to push Dean’s buttons. Never had he anticipated how Dean could’ve missed it. 

Right now, as he lapped up every drop, every errant smear of Sam’s cum, it was done in reverie. Using his tongue to trace the line of Sam’s too-bony hips, the thinned muscles that used to be defined abs. Dean was holding his side, worshipping a body Sam, himself, currently loathed.

He wondered if Dean knew, if it was intentional, or if he was doing it for a simple, shared pleasure and nothing more? 

He was thoughtful, mindful and affectionate in his approach, making Sam’s heartbeat, double-time. He was captivated by the way Dean moved, and soon, laid back beside him.  
  
After a brief smile, that odd hesitancy came back. The elephant.

The same kind that caused Dean to waive right before they came together.

As Sam attempted to settle on his side, he winced because—_fuck—_he couldn’t.

Dean noticed right away—maybe even before Sam had. He took the time to hurdle up and over Sam to change sides, so goddamn thankful. He perched up on his elbow with a grin and asked casually, “This better?” and wiggled his eyebrows.

All feigned bravado. Once again.  
  
Sam didn’t bother hiding his frown, because…hadn’t they gotten past all of this?

Clearing his throat, he shrugged. “Uh, yeah. I guess.” Matching Dean’s posture, he took a second to think because...they _ were _ doing the whole honesty thing—he supposed he should just go for it, right? “Dean…were you not sure? I mean, should we have waited longer? Don’t get me wrong, that was amazing, _God_, was it amazing, but I’m sorry if—”

“Sam, stop. Me? Unsure about being with you? C’mon, think about who you’re talking to.” His snort was dismissive. Almost. “I…well, fuck. There’s a lot of things we can talk about. Lots of things that can be sorted out, that we can...work out forgiveness and shit that way, right?”

While he had no idea where this was going, he nodded, encouraging, “Yeah. Definitely.”

“So demons…they get off on pain and suffering. We—_they_ can see it. Like a sixth sense. I can’t describe it right, but when someone’s hurtin’, it’s kind of like watching a heart monitor and bam—the machine's screaming as it spikes. When…” Dean swallowed hard, unable to meet Sam’s eyes when he explained, “when we were here, and you were trying to cure me, I could see all that pain. It was lighting up the charts. I knew all of it was caused by _ me_, Sammy.”

Dean sharply exhaled, voice near-whisper, “And while some of it was to push you away, I knew that other parts were because I _was_ a demon. And I may as well have broken your arm in the first place, ‘cause I know that I made it worse. While the demon-vision is gone, this reminder, here, kills me.”

As quickly as he could, Sam tried to press, “Dean. You _ died_. We get hurt all the time, it’ll heal it’s—”

“This was something I deliberately did to you, okay? Have I ever killed you? Have I ever done more than given you a good punch in the face when you deserved it?” Dean asked seriously, and said, “I…wanted to make you feel amazing. I wanted to give you the best friggin orgasm you’ve had in your life, for holdin’ out hope for me. And…you can’t even grab onto me.”

Instead of arguing, Sam held his retort in lieu of his brother’s sincerity.

Neither of them had escaped without scars: some emotional, others physical. They never did.

Sam had acknowledged Dean’s, maybe it was okay for him to do the same. Maybe that’s what Dean wanted?

“I’ll be able to. Soon. And then I’ll be able to do much more.” Sam leaned in and kissed Dean gently, lingering for a moment because he was receptive. “Maybe your demon-vision was worth something, after all. If you said you did more damage, maybe we should go and get it looked at tomorrow. You wanted me to anyway. I trust you.”

Dean appeared stunned, jaw agape as he analyzed Sam to see if he was messing with him. “Really?”

“Really,” he promised. “Having you here is everything. We can rest up, enjoy your memory foam. I’ll heal, get my strength back so I don‘t look like a rag doll. In the meantime, there are many other things we can do that don’t involve me grabbing onto you during sex.”

Sam inched closer, drawing Dean’s earlobe between his teeth. “Getting creative has never been a problem for us before, has it?”

“Mm, you got a point there...”

Finally, there was brightness, a weight gone and a contentment that Sam felt would hold Dean steady. 

So much so, that he felt confident enough to heckle him, “In the spirit of being creative, how are we cuddling tonight? Don’t even correct me about chick-flick crap, I’m way overdue, jerk.”

Without hesitation, Dean pulled Sam into a long, tender kiss—one that was enough to effectively render him speechless—and smoothly manipulate him. Swiftly and easily, Sam found himself completely wrapped in Dean’s arms, soaking in his warmth, and he couldn’t take this for granted.

Especially, the hushed, “I love you, Sammy,” paired with a nose grazing his temple, and, “Thanks for not giving up on me.”

Unlike his answer before, now that Sam’s knowledge was more vast about circumstances and his eyes were opened to the even harsher reality of Dean’s experience, he had something more to say than his heartfelt, “I love you, too.”

Dean knew exactly what Sam meant when he shakily professed, “Thank you for staying strong for me,” and held Sam just a little tighter.

Neither would ever break either of the vows said that night, and a new kind of strength surfaced. Another storm was weathered. Another link in the chain was bonded; human or demon, their devotion was unbreakable.

  



	2. Chapter 2

A part of Sam wondered: were they doomed from the start? No matter how hard they fought, he and Dean lived on board a sinking ship—their lives constantly swirled around mending the leaks, desperately searching for the broken pieces—needing to fix it before they drown.  
  
They could never get ahead—never docking this broken piece of shit, hell, never so much as seeing land on the horizon.  
  
Why should anything change? Why should Sam have expected anything but the worst?

He had to admit, breaking into Heaven was one of the bigger heists they’d pulled off.  
  
Except, Sam had done it without Dean knowing. Even with their fresh promises to trust each other again. But _ he had to—_everything was speeding downhill—and because of that urgency: maybe a reckless plan was what they needed for a big payoff.  
  
For once, they _ needed _ Metatron, they _ needed—_

Goddammit, his mind was jumbled. Sam should have known the Mark of Cain wouldn’t take long to alter their lives once more. Even though Dean was self-aware, it was larger than all of them combined. Sam’s wishful thinking proved he was an idiot to think otherwise.

He’d watched his brother go down this path already. For some reason..Dean seemed to be deteriorating much faster than before. As his bloodlust skyrocketed.  
  
At least, when he’d been a fuckin’ demon he’d funneled his energy to more…acceptance targets, coherent enough to hand-pick the bad guys.  
  
Now locked between human and demon impulse, a victim of escalating insanity, his violence seemed indiscriminate. Everyone who got in his way was the enemy. Getting in Dean’s way was fatal.

How long until it was an innocent bystander? A loved one? Armed with that knowledge, Dean’s guilt would never let anyone to pull him back. It was a fear he’d confided to Sam late one night, after they’d finally handled Cain.  
  
Dean wasn’t just worried about the Father of Murder’s predictions—he was distraught over how easily he gained the Mark in the first place.  
  
The last thing Dean wanted was to kill Cain: the man served as proof someone could resist. Once his idol fell and began slaughtering his bloodline, Dean admitted—yeah, half the world carried his bloodline, but not just anyone was worthy of the Mark.  
  
Deep down, he had to be natural born killer. If his intentions were pure, if his past was truly focused on helping others—in Dean's mind—Cain couldn’t transfer the magic if he tried. This revelation (that Sam tried so fucking hard to dispute) must have been connected with Dean’s decline.  
  
No matter how much he assured him ‘we don’t know the rules,’ or ‘you’ve been through Hell, literally, that could be the connection,’ and finally: ‘what about the things I’ve done?’ It didn’t work. It was like Sam was speaking to a brick wall, that’s why he knew it was time for drastic measures.

Alone in a deafening silence, Sam sat with the letter Bobby had written. The corners were wrinkled from unfolding and refolding the paper—having read it a million times.  
  
He glossed over Bobby’s words: saying he was a good man. Maybe in the past it would’ve given him hope, the gumption to push through.  
  
Sam tried his hardest to imagine Bobby’s disgruntled voice warming at the edges, giving him a hearty pat on the back, reading ‘he was proud.’ That Sam ‘would make the right choice.’  
  
Heartbreakingly, in their line of work, the people you lose far outnumber the loved ones you keep—your family turns into a memory. Every damn day, you pray to keep the memories and the sound of their voice.  
  
Through the years, unfortunately some had quieted; Sam could barely remember Jessica’s. From everything Dean told him, Sam wished he got the chance to hear Mom’s.  
  
No way in hell was he losing any part of Bobby. Then again, the old man made it damn hard to. For a moment, Sam smiled. Allowing himself a reprieve to look into the past, because the present hurt too much.

Yes, this last-minute letter brought a slew of emotions. Joy, melancholy and...hesitation.  
  
Sam kept scanning one part: he wasn’t asking Sam to stop, but not to go behind Dean’s back, that he may be stubborn, but even understanding. Almost like Bobby changed his mind, the pretty words switched to warnings. Saying that sometimes a little bad can bring a lot of good, but sometimes the bad is real bad, and the good comes with a price.

The price was something Sam was willing to pay. Always. Without blinking. But to get this situation under control, he had to work fast.

While he wasn’t afraid of his brother, the rest of the world ought to be.  
  
Thank God, he wasn’t alone—it wasn’t just Sam this time. Dean had more people who loved him than he gave himself credit for.

And Charlie—no matter how hesitate she was about the covert operation—she came through like a friggin rockstar. It wasn’t like Sam could take off on a search, deliberately and obviously disregarding Dean’s wishes with half-assed excuses. No way Dean would believe him, and more than that: he needed to monitor the situation.  
  
After false leads and multiple brushes with the wrong crowd, she honed in on their one hope, the Book of the Damned.

Sam fucking _ knew _ Dean’s salvation had to be in there! It took thinking out of the box, but at the end of the day, the Mark was a _ curse_, right? All curses could be undone—they needed the right magic touch.  
  
While there were still steps to be taken, they were on the path and for the first time, Sam felt like there was hope. After the right translation—a code he had full confidence Charlie could crack—the final puzzle piece was a witch. Sam knew _ exactly _where to find one.

But a problem arose right away.  
  
Once it was in their hands, Dean couldn’t take his eyes off it. There was a pull, the antsy energy reminded Sam of each time his brother was in proximity of the First Blade.  
  
Well, that worked as a glaring red sign to confirm Sam’s suspicions: the Curse’s curse, being rid of the Mark must be behind those pages—but only then, did he think about the price.

This _ was _ the unknown. They knew the results of a Crossroad’s Deal. They’d been to Heaven, Hell _ and _ Purgatory. While witches were very familiar, even the most well-known Covens were in the dark about the magic inside this book.  
  
Whatever happened, Bobby’s words kept echoing, Sam couldn’t get them out of his head!

Others were after it, they’d been tracking it, the Book was causing trouble from the jump and they hadn’t opened it.  
  
Dean usually let things roll off his shoulders, especially these days, which was why Sam was so surprised when he was confronted.  
  
Admitting it _ felt wrong_, he physically experienced this lure. The Book was calling out to him, even Dean could sense the darkness of the spell work, what was etched into the pages, even though they hadn’t begun to crack the code.  
  
While Sam had dealt with flashes of Dean’s rage lately, he’d been a spectator, not the focus—but Dean’s calm surface was seconds away from shattering when he ordered them in no simple terms: burn it, get rid of it, destroy it.

With his heart in his throat, Sam wanted to appease his brother. In a perfect world, he’d be able to do anything Dean wanted, everything he could to make him happy. Except, the world existing between them was a twisted dystopia of even some of their roughest goes.  
  
How could he ever make Dean happy again if he couldn’t get him back to being whole? The simple answer was: he couldn’t. He’d already decided he was willing to pay the price, right? If it was Dean’s fury, the other side of his fist, he could take it. Anything to get them out of this mess.  
  
His poker face must have dissolved completely, or maybe she was getting better at the game since she began working on her own, because soon—Charlie’s hand was latched to his forearm, whispering, “Okay, there’s way more to this than you’ve been telling me on the phone. C’mon, the closest grocery store is, like, a half hour away. You look wrecked, dude.”  
  
That’s when it hit him: _ all he had was Charlie_. It was clear that Dean was one foot out the door until they could make a difference and Sam—  
  
He buckled.  
  
He _ absolutely _ fucking _ buckled _ under the pressure and spilled his guts to Charlie. Telling her his life story. Every deep, dark secret, racing thoughts spilling over the tip of his tongue, because he no longer had a confidant in Dean.  
  
His brother only operated in two modes: Dean would disagree, and adamantly stop Sam in his tracks or he wouldn’t be bothered to care. Sam didn’t know which was worse.  
  
Yet, within the misery, he admitted this life was something he loved. He’d be batshit crazy to torture himself for nothing, right?—Charlie could relate with his form of sacrifice. It was something they had in common.  
  
Although...no matter how important hunting was to him: he couldn’t do it without Dean. He didn’t want to, he literally _ couldn’t _ do anything without—  
  
Yeah, he’d done a halfhearted attempt to speak vaguely and cryptically about _ them_, but Charlie was smart enough to figure it all out.  
  
Already armed with a sneaking suspicion, Charlie hadn’t planned to pry but the way Sam emotionally broke down...well, it did wonders for clarity. His own words then went on to cement all curiosities.  
  
And she was a fucking saint. Comfort, acceptance without a split-second of judgement. All that, wrapped up into a small ball of wits, genius and sass. She was truly their little sister.

Due to her understanding, her support, he was more conflicted than ever—Sam continually eyed the book, lost—he didn’t know what to do. He found himself mouthing the word, ‘Don’t go behind Dean’s back,’ and tried to reason with himself.  
  
He knew what he was getting himself into. There were numerable reasons to abort mission, immediately.

This book...it could (hell, it already _ had_) create a massive ripple effect.

And there was a ways to go before they could unlock it, steps that hadn’t even been set in motion. Charlie had to translate the ancient Sumerian, then break the code. Sam was going to bring Rowena in to cast the spell. Dark magic and the Dark Arts always required a sacrifice, rare ingredients, who knew how many lives that, too, would touch? Who knew how he'd get her on board?

And the price? No one could predict how far-reaching the scale of something outright _ Biblical_.

Then there was the matter of the Stynes. The freaks who would stop at nothing to get this book back.  
  
The worst of scenarios: something so powerful falling into the wrong hands. The possibility was real, if not likely, the thing was lo-jacked. Wherever they went, they’d be followed, so eliminating it seemed the best option, right?  
  
There were _ so many _ negatives outweighing the benefits, the scale was nearly toppling over—crushing Sam’s hope with it.

Dean had ordered it destroyed. In that moment, he’d felt so defeated when all Sam wanted was to make him happy. For a little while, at least. 

He wouldn’t have to drag anyone into this mess, hurt anyone on the sidelines or any civilians that got caught in the crossfire, and now…well.  
  
Deciding to ‘do the right thing’...it was life-altering. But he’d do it for his brother.  
  
Sam was in for a shock when he threw the book into the roaring fire—  
  
And it didn’t burn.  
  
Charlie and Sam exchanged expression of bafflement before she grabbed the fire poker and stabbed at it, pushing it deeper into the wood. It continued to deflect the flames.  
  
After ten minutes passed and it remained immaculate, Sam grabbed the rod from her hand and dug it out. “What the hell—” His eyes widened, the thick cover actually cool the touch, and decided on a different tactic. “Maybe we need to gut it from the inside out.”  
  
With an affirmative nod, Sam and Charlie took turns tearing out sheets, wadding them up and tossing them to the flames. Uneasy relief came in the form of hot cinders crisping the edges, and igniting until the entire sheet was an orange ember, but Charlie soon jarred him out of the victory.  
  
“Oh no…”  
  
He didn’t like her tone. When he followed her gaze, he soon realized what she had seen a second earlier. Sam had been shredding and burning the same spell over a dozen times—he recognized the runes—and he knew damn well the book wasn’t a single spell, copied over and over again.  
  
Fucking hell. When they tried to rip the pages away, they’d magically appear right back where they came from. Just when they thought they were making progress, this method wasn’t working either!

Sam and Charlie spent a god-awful amount of time and creativity attempting to destroy it, but nothing worked! Sam didn’t want to admit it, but he wondered aloud, “What if…this is a sign?”

“It’s not a sign, dude! This book is a pain in the ass, and I will _ not _be its bitch! There’s gotta be something, something more final? Right?” She gasped, an idea popping to mind, “What if Dean sliced and diced with the First Blade?”

His hackles rose, not only had Dean felt drawn to the book, but anytime he had the First Blade he was already climbing to the top of the ladder, preparing to swan dive into a new downward spiral. He wouldn’t even entertain the idea of both items around his brother in the same place at the same time—it would spell out disaster.  
  
Sam shook his head and decided instead, “I’ll ask Cas. He’ll know. I’ll tell Dean the truth.”

Charlie looked proud.

Shit, all these people who he loved and looked to for advice and help—Bobby and now Charlie?—Sam felt like he’d failed them. Or he was going to. He didn’t see the man that they saw, Sam couldn’t be that guy for them. The measures he’d take to care for his brother, for damage control, were too extreme.

Speaking of damage, that stupid, invincible book was a lighthouse and during their ordeal trying to destroy it—and it led the Stynes right to them.  
  
It felt off, eerie: they weren’t used to being _the hunted._ Their lives focused on offensive battles—never playing defense—but it showed Sam again; the book had to go.  
  
The only reason they ambushed the cabin was for book. The alarm rang out, alerting everyone: Sam hadn’t burned it. They knew it was in one piece. That their attempt to shred it, no matter how good their intentions, were irrelevant.  
  
It was a common, annoying theme that plagued Sam and Charlie as they cut into the Stynes. Similar to the fucking book, they kept getting back up, even after a chest packed full of lead!  
  
The oddest part of do-or-die situations is the choices you’re able to make in the moment. When you're free of guilt, wholly committed, and positive you’re doing the right thing.  
  
See, Sam knew the fight was winding down and there was only one more Styne to go. He wanted to make a show for Dean—prove he was devoted and agreeable—before anyone could break the news the Book of the Damned was goddamn Fort Knox. Knowing this guy was two seconds away from getting his head blasted off with that information inside, Sam took a risk.  
  
He grabbed a look-alike, doused it in holy oil and tossed it in the flames—for Dean’s sake.  
  
So he was convinced. The real book sitting there, whole, would've crushed him, Sam needed more time and maybe—  
  
He was having second thoughts.  
  
Even when the guy’s dying words called his bluff, knowing he didn’t torch The Book his voice was too low, too quiet, the secret died with him. And Sam was all in.

When the attack was over and the adrenaline faded, Dean stretched out—feigning causal words and smiling, trying to distract from (but hide, mostly: from Charlie) these new unnatural post-kill highs. Sometimes he’d beat himself up over the thrill, sometimes Sam swore it was better than sex to Dean—but he couldn’t figure out if the difference was the victim or his response to the company he was in.  
  
Charlie took a beat of her own to pack up, continually stealing glances at Sam. He didn’t blame her  
  
After all, tucked away in his backpack, between his laptop and jeans, happened to be the Book of the Damned inside the Cursebox. That was the only reason Dean was grinning at him. Not tweaking out and lunging for his throat.  
  
Because he thought Sam had been good. Obeyed his instructions. And...he tried. Honest to God, he’d made the effort.  
  
Charlie should have known that, instead of slowly working through her unease. They’d attempted everything. Maybe Sam saw a second chance, that there was a reason—and until now, Fate had fucked him before. Could this be the apology he was waiting for?  
  
It didn’t matter which of the three sisters was cutting him some slack. That hope he lost was renewed, he'd throw her a party. Even though tackling the process was daunting, the players were in place. Charlie had mentioned she’d support Sam, no matter what. He was going to hold her to that.  
  
Once they hightailed it out, something unique happened.

For the first time in who knows how long—with Charlie in tow—they met Cas at the bunker and _ celebrated_. Pizza, beer and good company.

A few days prior, with his arms wrapped around him, Dean had whispered in Sam’s ear that they were due for a vacation. On a beach, with the sand between their toes, and the ocean. Right then and there—_that_ was _his_ reason to keep pushing forward.  
  
It proved Dean was still looking into the future. He wasn’t locked into ‘one day at a time,’ not giving up as a lost cause. Even when the outcome seemed bleak, even when Dean was afraid of himself, his attitude was leagues better than being promised to Hell and his Crossroad’s Deal, staring down a one-year clock.  
  
Better still, he saw Sam by his side through all of it…maybe that made the difference. Or Sam would like to believe. And maybe thinking about it on the drive home, in retrospect, he owed more to Dean for not shutting him out. He could’ve—he made the choice not to.

While the Bunker wasn’t exactly a white, sandy beach and they weren’t watching the ocean waves crash as the tide came in—Sam liked this view just as much...

Dean visibly appeared lighter and they were surrounded by family. The icing on the cake was, for the first time, they didn’t have to hide their relationship behind closed doors.  
  
Yeah, Dean had been miffed for all of a half-second Sam had told Charlie without ‘permission,’ but did it really matter? Cas had known forever—he’d taken the fact for what it was probably before Sam and Dean had, actually having a hand when they were still processing things. Angels (well, a free-thinking one like _Cas_) saw thing differently: that bodies were vessels and souls were individuals and that concept alone offered a new, life-changing perspective.  
  
The ability to be themselves, like this, it was...priceless.

Sam was excited Charlie and Cas hit it off (he was surprised they hadn’t met until now), chatting away (one more animated than the other) and devouring the pizza.  
  
As the drinks quickly dried, Dean gathered cups, volunteering, “I’ll go get some refills!” and Sam agreed, “I’ll grab some liquor and shot glasses, too! Make it a real party,” in order to follow him.

Once they were in the kitchen, Dean knew he was _ pursued_, not ‘followed.’

He proved it. By sauntering in and pinning Sam against the counter, his hands clamping down on both sides to box him in. “I’m havin’ trouble reading you tonight. Are you dancing around sexy times? Do you have something to tell me?” He raised an interested eyebrow, “Do you have something sexy to tell me?”

Sam laughed and shook his head. Just because he could, he took advantage of their proximity, closing it, and kissing Dean’s full, soft lips. Dean sighed happily into the kiss before tilting his head and swiping his tongue across the seam of Sam’s lips.

His mouth naturally opened and the kiss deepened—Sam easily lost himself. Somehow, his hands had migrated to Dean’s hips, he was insistently tugging and pulling, and— 

Goddammit, this _ wasn’t _ why they came back here! Sam really _ did _have a point—

“Crap...” Sam breathlessly chuckled, pecking what he thought could be one final kiss onto Dean’s lips. “I get so caught up in you. And you know it! Try and take advantage…”  
  
Oh, his focus was wavering again—

Since Dean went smoothly from tracing his hand from Sam’s neck, all the way down to the lip of his jeans, then his belt buckle, agreeing, “I like you getting caught up in me. Means I’m doing something right.” He was was rough when he grabbed the metal with a firm jerk, “So tell me what’s up, Sammy.”

Shivering, knowing Dean was in a _mood_, Sam needed to address _that _right away. “We’re gonna have to try and be quiet tonight. We’ve got house guests, and—”

“You mean _you’re_ gonna try to stay quiet, right?” Dean countered with a devilish grin. “Oh, sweetheart, you know you’re the one who begs and screams for me…”

“Hey,” Sam hissed, “I’m never getting rid of this hard-on if you keep this shit up!” 

Wait, he knew exactly what would fix this…but it may ruin Dean’s mood in the process.  
  
It didn’t matter, he needed to get it out before he backed down—Sam may not have trusted himself, but if Dean trusted him, he could do the same. Put his trust in Dean, they’d figure out where to go.

“Okay, first—what I gotta say, we can figure it out tomorrow. Promise me you won’t let it ruin tonight? I need to tell you now. So you’ve got proof I’m not, and I _ won't hide _ anything from you. Never again, Dean. Never.” Sam watched his brother’s eyebrows screw up on his forehead, and in an instant: he was wary.

Sam quickly assured him, explaining to him in backwards, spontaneous and ill-prepared babble, “You can ask Charlie. And we’re _planning_ on asking Cas for help later. Fuck, I need to start over. Okay: we tried to burn the book. Rip it to shreds, douse it with Holy Oil, Dragon Blood fuckin' tar and griffin feather it, anything in our arsenal and torch it—the thing is powerful; it’s got some kind of immortality spell on it. But we _will_ destroy it. I swear to God.”

Sam should have expected Dean to recoil at the mention of the book.

He demanded, “Where is it now?”

“Locked in a Curse Box. You know I’ll protect you, I’d never let that thing fuck with your head, Dean. It’s warded, sealed up in the dungeon.” Sam tried again to slacken the growing tension, “You needed to hear the news from me about the status of that godforsaken…_thing_. I didn’t want you to think I hid keeping it around, that I was doing anything behind your back. Sure, it crossed my mind, but I knew nothing was worth hurting you...even to save you.”

Discouraged by the way Dean’s energy had taken a nosedive, Sam all but begged, “C’mon, we’re gonna have fun tonight!”

Dean was proactive: pulling out the shot glasses and setting them on the table. While grabbing an aged and special Scotch, he disclaimed, “This is for us, not them. When we bring back the community booze? It’s gonna be Jack.”

“O-okay.” Sam stared down at the alcohol and waited for Dean to initiate the toast.

“Cheers; to you coming clean from the start, no matter the shitty news! We’re doing pretty good on this trust thing, huh.” They clinked their glasses and tossed back the liquor, smooth and easy going down.

Unsure if it was the warmth from the toast or the warmth of the liquor‘s burn, Sam knew he felt good. He’d fought tooth and nail, debating with himself—but when he remembered all the lengths he’d gone to trying to destroy the book, all the reasons that had been racing through his mind? Combining that with Dean’s subsequent joy, imagining it had been done—  
  
No. They couldn’t repeat the past. All the mistakes they made—if they stood a chance on their sinking ship, they had to be steady.

The confession was coupled with a sigh. “It was hard. I thought about keeping it a million times, you know? Thinking about how it may be your only way out…but _ you _ mean more to me than that. What _ you’d want_, not me, was more important—I’ve been selfish before when it comes to you, and it doesn’t usually end well. I don’t want other people getting hurt and...maybe there’s a back-up we haven’t talked about.”

The mention made Dean stop cold in place. “Back-up? Have you been holding out on me?”

“Nah, the idea...it only came to me today. And it’s full-on fuckin’ nuts.” He knocked their glasses together, even if Dean’s was stagnant. “I’m sure I’ll tell you _ all _ about it when I’m wasted. But I’m gonna need _ a lot _ of booze to get there.”

“Let’s get you wasted! Especially if it‘s about my salvation.” He set down the drink and clapped his hands together. “Until then, make yourself useful. Help me carry this shit.”

Knocking shoulders and shushing each other as they crept down the hallways towards Dean’s room, proved the pair were officially drunk and stupid.

Charlie had long since dismissed herself right around the same time Dean got it into his head that ‘by now, we should have the tolerance of an angel, shouldn’t we?!’ and it segued into a downhill drinking game with Cas.

Obviously, they were just drunk enough to think it was an excellent idea, and Cas was buzzed enough not to stop them.

Everyone lost.

Sam wondered though…did they _ really _lose?

While he knew they were gonna feel like trash tomorrow, for now he and Dean were giggling like kids again, tripping over their own feet in a place they called home, surrounded by family. Yeah—their best friend, their brother (who was ironically angelic) went to work polishing off a brand-new fifth while he settled in front of Sam’s laptop for another Netflix marathon while under the influence. Cas was happy.

Charlie, their sister, was cozy enough to have already claimed a room in the bunker, too.   
  
A few months ago, Sam was obsessively stress-cleaning while he broke things—the cycle made no sense. When he'd poked his head into one of the dorm rooms that he assumed would be covered in dust, he found...it wasn’t. Instead, he noticed the handful of clothes Charlie had left in the drawer, along with a handful of personal items and all the books she was privy to. That room was one of the few that had remained unscathed during his rampages—it was sacred.  
  
For a brief second, a flicker of _ something _shot through his chest, reminding him what happiness was like. He’d been grateful to Charlie way back then, and overjoyed she could return to it.

It was funny—out of everyone, all their rag-tag, self-made family…Sam had been the last to feel like the bunker was truly home.

Maybe it took a family to do it?

With Dean glued to his side, his hands were quick to turn grabby while they fumbled into his dark room, Sam’s heart picked up speed. Not only from Dean’s impatient touch, but the instant pressure of lips against his neck and the words, “You gonna tell me, yet?” startlingly close.

Disoriented and blind, he was under Dean’s whims and control—his brother swinging him to safety in the form of a mattress and clumsily tugging away his clothes. Sam felt him everywhere. His limited ability to reason, understand, and his demolished spatial awareness only knew one thing—he was surrounded and overcome in the form of his brother.

To be honest….it was all kinds of fantastic.

Hell, Sam knew he was seeking him out, nuzzling against him with a happy purr-like rumble in his chest.  
  
Jesus, he was _ loaded—_

“Shh, just know I-I have a plan…” Sam’s words were slurred yet full of conviction. It was enough, it had to be, Dean needed to believe him because he didn’t know if he _ could _verbalize—

“Oh, you’re still shushing me?” His voice was deliciously devilish but—

“Dean—!” Sam gasped, wondering when the hell he’d sunk down low enough to bite his hips?!

“Told you,” Dean crooned. “You’d be the one needin’ to—_umph_!”

Shutting him up was easy when Sam clamped his knees shut, sandwiching Dean’s head in.

Oh shit, he wasn’t going down without a fight, hell no—determination formed into an unexpected fiery grit, and Sam—

Soon found himself helpless. Restrained. On his stomach, with Dean pinning his arms low, behind his back. _Just _ to be an asshole. He knew damn well how fast this got Sam worked up—now the question was…did he want an answer?  
  
Or did Dean want to watch as he helplessly fucked down against the mattress for friction—wishing it was Dean instead? Sam didn’t care what part he got…whether it was Dean's mouth, his hand…hell, he’d take the drag of his _ thigh _ right now!  
  
Huh, maybe if he went that route it’d teach Dean a lesson in manners.

If Dean wanted to teach Sam a lesson in control by making a show of taking Sam’s away, he’d prove just how resourceful he could be.  
  
Grinding down against the comforter between his legs may (eventually) turn into friction-burn, but Sam knew damn well Dean could never wait that long. The alcohol dulled his senses as he shamelessly defied Dean’s choice to render him helpless and—in the meantime—gave him a helluva show.  
  
He could hear the hitch of his breath, knowing the more he writhed the more his brother’s mouth watered, and the closer he was to _acting._ All while Sam got away with any kind of relief he could. Although it wasn’t Dean’s hand, he could feel his focus and hunger wash over him like a humid summer night.  
  
Faster than he thought, Dean’s grip tightened, he tossed his weight around and hauled Sam’s pelvis up—suspending him away from, well, anything—  
  
Depriving him of all sensory experiences was _not_ what he expected when he tried to make Dean ‘snap.’ Sure, Sam heard the growl, the shaky-shudder of all-consuming desire, but when Dean’s teeth sunk into his side and his body went rigid, he had to think before responding and _acting_.  
  
“Dammit!” He wriggled around, feeling the chuckle against his spine before he heard it. “Do you even wanna listen—”  
  
“Mm, I dunno if you’re stringing me along, or what—” Dean’s laughter traveled in small jumps as Sam shivered, feeling his breath move along his back, down between his legs, “C’mon, Sammy, lots'a times, I can’t get you to shut up. Makes me think this ‘idea’ is BS…” his words were the same as striking a match.  
  
Many ruffled Sam’s feathers because, no—he wasn’t lying, he wished his fucking bat-shit crazy idea wasn’t running laps in his head—in fact, he was fucking annoyingly dizzy…  
  
—but could Sam gain the courage to convey those feelings, when Dean’s taunting words puffed between his ass cheeks, when Sam could _ feel _ the heat of a breath that stole away his own?  
  
“See?” Dean playfully emphasized, knowing exactly what he was doing, “It’s a sweet thought, kid, but you've got no reason to pretend...”  
  
Sam would normally be vehemently arguing, back-talking and bitching—  
  
If Dean’s tongue wasn’t licking filthy, sloppy stripes from the base of his balls to the cleft of his ass. Each handful spread Sam open further, Dean’s nails digging in harder.  
  
By the time laps of Dean’s tongue changed route and plunged inside his hole, Sam’s mewls of pleasure had grown loud enough they needed muffling. It was next to _impossible_, quieting the blabbered words, “God, _yes_, just like that—” as they muddling together, Sam bucking backwards, trying to fuck against Dean’s face. “Jesus, you’ll make me cum like this—”  
  
For reasons unknown, Dean eating him out shocked him with mini-electric impulses and Sam felt like he was going to short-circuit. Maybe receiving pleasure was so rare, that Dean zealously and avidly giving to Sam was something he used to soar high on—and these days, both of them knew when it was forced, knowing more so it was better if they didn’t bother pretending.  
  
No one was pretending. They were too smashed, too drunk on each other, and too pissed off at the outside world to make-believe otherwise.  
  
Anchoring himself, Dean balanced them both so he could wrap an arm around Sam’s waist, grabbing his cock. He launched an all-out assault and took it a step further, shifting his grip on Sam’s ass and adding the stretch of fingers where only his tongue had previously been.  
  
Sam’s jaw dropped in a spine-tingling wanton gasp and, just before keening too damn loud—  
  
The inevitable was probably his signal to act. And the reason Dean tossed him down and flipped him over like a goddamn linebacker—silencing him with lips.  
  
He sure as fuck didn’t mind. Even if their movement was uncoordinated. Even when trying to wriggle into a better position came with countless clunks, knocks and more bruises they’d surely find in the morning.  
  
The thing was: Sam didn’t care about the morning. About tomorrow. The only thing that mattered was Dean kissing him like he was the center of the world, bursting with love, and these days: it felt rare. He wanted to drown in this and never wake up...  
  
The sweetest feeling, the special moments Sam had all but given up on—he needed to cling to these, now more than ever. His vision blurred from refusing to pull away, who needed to breath when what waited for them outside was so dismal? He held on for dear life, knowing his grasp—his fingers—clutched and clung on hard enough to cut. At least Dean was chuckling against his lips...  
  
When their foreheads crashed together again, Sam was acutely aware that (while his ears were ringing) he certainly wasn’t feeling any pain.  
  
And while Dean’s lips were moving, he couldn’t process any words...huh...maybe he was a little more loaded than he thought?  
  
He could see Dean’s outline and his shaking his head. Flicking his cheek. Kissing the tip of his nose and then—  
  
Shimmying them around until he was securely tucked underneath him.  
  
Sam could feel the heaving sigh of Dean’s chest and peppered kisses as his vision blurred in and out.  
  
...fuck…  
  
It wouldn’t be until the next morning (when he was cleaning up) that he realized exactly how much they’d put away.  
  
That the last shot that had done him in, apparently, turned him into a sappy, needy, love-confessing cuddle-monster. And, while Sam never vocalized his plan, he didn’t have any issues telling Dean every other thing he felt.  
  
He hadn’t the slightest idea if that was more embarrassing or Cas greeting them in the hallway the next afternoon, wondering if either of them needed healing from the injury they’d done to the other the previous night. He’d been ‘waiting to see the damage’ and curious if the results were as bad as he’d expected from the ruckus he’d heard.  
  
Those kinds of things used to roll off Sam’s back and mortified Dean, but along the way their reactions had swapped. Now, Sam was the one who turned white and Dean went with the flow, throwing him under the bus, divulging that Sam had clocked out on him before he could do any real, lasting mojo-worthy damage.  
  
While the hangover was a nightmare and he was disappointed in his own, uh, lack of performance, at the end of the day (well...night)—he’d sell his soul for another like it. For even the shadow of another, even if the ending was destined to wrap up the same way.  
  
Times he was able to spend with his friends, his goddamn family were sacred. Any chance to shed the weight of the world and pretend it didn’t exist, for five fucking minutes, was treasured. Whenever their shoulders were even a little lighter and he could be with Dean (and he allowed himself to feel the same way) it was better than any Heaven they had to look forward to.  
  
To Sam, it was everything.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Warnings:** This is the chapter I mentioned in my notes at the beginning for Trigger Warnings. I wasn't sure how to tag Hot Second Character Death, but in short: Dean can only turn back into a demon one way, right? If you want specifics: please glance at the notes at the end BEFORE reading.

In another time, in a different world Sam would have likened the Stynes to cockroaches, continually popping up, and undoubtedly being the only thing that survived a nuclear war.  
  
Except, they didn’t live in that world. A nuisance turned into a problem. A problem quickly turned into a constant battle, to the point of altering their lives.  
  
This didn’t occur often, but it forced their hand; Sam and Dean were under pressure to figure out a way to get _ ahead _ of them. The constant strain of watching their backs for some glorified zombies grated and frayed nerves.  
  
The book was a menace, as was the family willing to go to any lengths to possess it. _ Of course, _ it’d be the one thing they couldn’t figure out how to destroy.

They couldn’t let it fall into the wrong hands and it’s constant presence wore on Sam.  
  
Especially since the magic warding protected Dean from it’s effects, making the Book of the Damned all the more tempting to utilize on the darkest nights. The ones where Sam would fall asleep next to a brother be barely recognize, wondering if he’d still be Dean in the morning.  
  
In keeping his promise, that option was lost: Sam had come into contact with the Codex and left it behind.  
  
God, it felt like a fucking punch in the gut. He _ had _ to walk away, he _ had _ to leave it behind it because Sam and temptation...well, they didn’t have the best track record. Being one step closer to possibly breaking the curse, finding a way to scrape off that Mark forever—it would weaken his resolve.  
  
Dean had said his peace, Sam would honor it. Even if it meant putting himself in a time-out, not trusting himself.

Information was key: the family’s obsession and knowledge about the book may help them. If anyone had the answer, Styne should know how to destroy it, right?  
  
Until then, their job was keeping it out of reach around the clock. This magnitude of power falling in the wrong hands would be catastrophic.  
  
If that happened, Sam’s fury and wrath would follow—after all the painstaking trouble—the back-and-forth mental battles and turmoil he’d gone through, to avoid flipping through those pages himself.

Just when they thought they’d hooked their fish and were finally making progress, defeat slapped them in the face. Regeneration was a bitch, but they’d never expected the asshole to cut off his own limb!  
  
Victory turned into an eerily silent dungeon and a severed, swaying arm.  
  
In a flash, adrenaline took its place—but this was brought on by terror—ignited by a lightning-fast phone call.  
  
Hunting trained you to bury a lot under the surface. Dealing with trauma was as easy as cooking breakfast—sewing your torn skin together to keep your organs inside was easy as a bee sting. High-stakes acted as fuel, it kept you going when a good knock on the head fucked with your vision, there was a comfort in chaos.  
  
All bets were off when it came to family. That was, and always had been, the Winchester’s weakness.

Instantly, they dropped everything. The matter didn’t didn’t merely take precedence—it was the _ only _thing on the list.  
  
Family was everything (they didn’t have much left) and the moment they heard these fuckers were tracking them through Charlie?

A hellstorm was coming.

While the Bunker was warded and safe from whatever voodoo these guys worked, Charlie had taken off. At the time, they hadn’t thought twice about it.  
  
Without her specialty needed for the Codex or the Book, her part of the hunt was done. It was Sam and Dean’s burden to finish the job: torching the book and ending the Stynes laid with them. Or so they thought.  
  
Toasting, saying their goodbyes and ‘see you soons,’ Charlie took to the open road, back on another mission or adventure, it felt so normal.  
  
Her call begging for help sent a shockwave striking down to their core.  
  
All they were supposed to care about was the book! No one knew she’d been a target—but in retrospect, they’d been fucking idiots.  
  
The Stynes had tailed her since she found the thing. Charlie had been the one to retrieve it. She was their link to the Winchesters. _ Of _ fucking _ course_, she’d be hunted—without a signal from cursebox scrambling, any one of them could have it and she represented a one-in-three chance. Good enough odds for them.  
  
Even empty handed, she had information. She knew locations. And where to find Sam and Dean. What the fuck were they doing—feeding her to the wolves?!  
  
Sam was stunned by their shortsightedness, their stupidity.  
  
And now...here she was. Hanging on by a thread—in hiding (like she should have been—should’ve _ stayed_) she barely made it out alive.  
  
The Winchesters avoided hospitals like the plague, only used as a last resort when it came down to life and death. One look at Charlie and they knew she was straddling that line.  
  
The Impala’s skidding brakes alerted a nurse by the entrance whose jaw dropped. Charlie was rushed into the ER before Dean could switch gears into park.  
  
Pacing, feeling her blood dry on their clothes, the clock ticking so fucking slow was torture. It never got easier, this stuck record of ‘what-if’ and guilt, feeling the itch of retrieving a machete from the trunk as incentive to get an update on how Charlie was doing.  
  
If she was stable. If she was going to make it. No matter who was around, even if it was Dean, being in the dark was lonely.  
  
Well...especially if it was Dean.  
  
He’d always played his cards close to his chest. There’d been a time he’d opened up to Sam but not when the blame fell squarely on their shoulders. How the hell could they show support—show love—when their disdain for themselves was overwhelming?  
  
The doctor’s magic words, “We’ve moved her to the ICU,” spurred them to action, rushing towards him so fast he nearly crashed into a wall trying to turn away.  
  
It was clear they’d made an impression in the lobby: Charlie’s room was large and tucked away in an isolated corner. Maybe they should make a scene everywhere, this atmosphere of privacy and vantage point couldn’t be better to defend.  
  
—God, it sounded like they were waging war!  
  
Charlie..._fuck_, seeing her like this punched the breath from his lungs—she looked every bit the fallen comrade, as they closed the curtains and settled in.  
  
The silence between them was heavy—so much heavier than Sam had felt in a damn long time. While he wished he knew what was going on in Dean’s head...he could figure that out himself. And with Charlie unconscious, none of it was pretty.  
  
Sam wanted to speak. He desperately wanted to fill the air with his own relief she was alive—even if they’d failed her. Discuss their next move of action. Plan revenge. But every time he snuck a glance at his brother, there was an underlying rage.  
  
Something telling him he was playing with fire and below the surface: Dean was dangerous. A ticking bomb.  
  
Any other time, in any other place, Sam would confront him. He’d do it in a heartbeat, if only to let him work off some of that anger. No, he wasn’t afraid, he’d take Dean at his darkest, he _ already _ had.  
  
The fact remained: they were here for Charlie. If something went wrong, if—God help him—something erupted, this wasn’t the Bunker, it was a public place. It was pointless to stoke the fire because he _ wanted to_.

...fucking Christ, did Sam _ want to._  
  
Everything that could go wrong was happening in real-time, why should Sam have expected anything different? Even when he tried to make the right choices, he couldn’t stop their downhill momentum.  
  
Yeah, maybe he should’ve seen it coming, but the next kind of ‘worse’ was relative.  
  
Countless hours inched by while they held vigil by her bedside long into the night.  
  
One minute, Sam had left to get a coffee, needing to be awake, to be a comfort to Charlie when she finally opened her eyes. Except, when he came back, Dean was gone.  
  
It was a chilling repeat of what happened to their Father. A page taken out of history when John made his deal with Yellow Eyes.  
  
First, John was the picture of calm in the room—the next, in the basement. In a blink, Dean was alive, their father; dead. All of it happened in the span of time to find bitter, watered-down hospital coffee.  
  
Guts coiling over the flashback, Sam standing in the same footprints he’d been in all those years ago, his tattered mind looped around one thought. _ He couldn’t make it if Dean wound up dead—_

The only reassurance he had was Crowley. Plus, Crossroad Demons had enough of them a long, long time ago—their souls were off limits, too much trouble. On the same token...Dean’s soul was different.  
  
Hell, he was fighting for exactly that—wringing out how the Mark twisted it, struggling to shine light deep in those blackened, charred corners.  
  
Circumstances were night and day. Dean hadn’t taken off as a martyr, his intent wasn’t geared towards justice. Fuck no.  
  
Dean was blood-thirsty and set on cold-served revenge.  
  
It didn’t matter how much Sam wracked his brain, he had no idea where his brother was headed! This whole time—maybe he should have spoken up? Even if it was a risk, he should’ve checked in with Dean, who knows what he was getting himself into—  
  
Then again...Dean was dangerous before. After what the Stynes had done to Charlie? A small part of Sam knew how the odds were stacked, no matter how bad he wanted to rush off after him. They’d earned this, by targeting Charlie, they’d flipped a switch—Dean became the predator.  
  
The thing that pissed him off, was Dean’s calculated play _ on Sam: _both knowing Dean’s current mindset made him unpredictable, that he couldn’t be caught. With Dean going rogue, there was no joining his fight, there was only tracking the aftermath. Only then, would he need Sam.  
  
And Charlie…she needed him here. She needed them _ the most_.  
  
Dean was an asshole to use that to his advantage.

She still hadn’t woken up after—Sam glanced at the clock—almost seven hours..  
  
After carving their way in, they’d found her limp as a ragdoll, just as she laid now. The terror and questions—were they too late?—spiked as Sam scooped her up, cold and lifeless from shock.  
  
While the techs could barely discern a heartbeat as they sped down the hallway on the stretcher, their attempts told stories: how her ribs were clearly broken, how her breathing was shallow and fading. The doctor had since then informed them Charlie was lucky. Because those shattered ribs hadn’t punctured a lung or any vital organs.  
  
Hell no, luck had nothing to do with it: she was a survivor.  
  
‘Lucky’ sure didn’t look like this. Buried in cords, tangled wires and hidden under bandages. An unsmiling and battered Charlie, hooked into monitors to announce she was, indeed, still alive because you couldn’t tell. Encircled by machines, needles fixed into her veins, fuck, she looked like a little girl.  
  
She was too small for the bed. Her vibrancy—her natural glow—was nearly buried beneath ugly bruises, seeping gashes, ugly scrapes and—_fuck..._ Sam couldn’t get past it—his heart, it was their fault she was dumped and left for dead, laying utterly broken.

The warmth he felt when reaching out and cradling her hand wasn’t only from Charlie’s rising temperature, but in the knowledge she was okay. This woman was as stubborn as they came and living through that nightmare was enough. She’d be back, kicking ass in no time.  
  
Another different flicker heated up when Sam realized he _ was _ exactly where he wanted to be and that led to another problem.  
  
This should’ve been a priority to Dean, Charlie loved him more than anything. Not only had Dean left Sam behind, he manipulated and used Sam’s loyalty the second he got an opening.  
  
A question niggled...something didn’t sit right.  
  
Had Dean sacrificed being there, being present with Sam, _for _ Charlie in order to avenge her? Or had Dean’s exploited Sam’s loyalty, making him solely responsible and tethered in place, his escape and mission secure without regard to Charlie?  
  
The thing that scared him the most...Sam wasn’t sure of the answer. Maybe he didn’t want to know.  
  
One thing he was goddamn positive on: Sam _ had _ to be here when she opened her eyes. With or without Dean, it didn’t matter.  
  
His brother’s chess game was irrelevant—especially when Charlie began to respond.  
  
A gasp of hope filled his lungs when her hand barely (just barely) twitched in his palm. Not letting himself get too excited, he waited—seeing if it would pass. Maybe she was in a deep sleep. With all the countless nights she’d been racking up, Charlie deserved a year-long coma, but Sam wouldn’t allow that.  
  
He leaned in and whispered in a hushed, “Hey, you’re safe, you’re in the hospital,” it was pivotal Charlie correlated her staggering pain with survival instead a trip downstairs, even when it had been caused by their screw up.  
  
Fuck, Sam couldn’t remember the countless times he’d regained his wits after a fight, only to find himself tied up, bleeding out, miles away from anything, just...fighting to stay alive...survive. Those were the sweetest words to hear: that the mess is behind you. Especially, coming from family.  
  
“No one can hurt you. I’ve got you…” Sam echoed those thoughts he knew _he’d_ want to hear, just in case.  
  
When her fingers curled around his hand, he let his happiness thrive: this was no accident.  
  
“Woah, ‘m not roadkill? Feel like I’ve been through’a meat grinder...” Up against a dry mouth, Charlie’s words were slurred from the meds and slow to work with her newly-beaten face. Her eyes were slow to open, but Sam would give her all the time in the word. “Oh, heeeey. You look like shit, too. Other kind.”  
  
Chuckling and shaking his head, Sam scooted the chair closer and collapsed on her bed. “I’ll let that slide because you look pathetic.” He leaned on his elbow, soaking in the moment, ignoring her odd expression. “I’m so glad you’re okay. And I am so sorry—”  
  
“Eh!” Her grunt was abrupt, but it did wonders to stop him. “Dude...if I could hit ya, I totes would. But I can’t lift a’thing. Like, my butt’s tingly and my elbow itches but a thousand-pound cotton ball is pinning me down, and—”  
  
“You’ve got the good drugs.” Wow, it felt good to laugh and, in turn, see Charlie’s wicked grin. He hadn’t realized he was thinking aloud until the words, “I was scared I’d never hear another of your dumb jokes and it’d always be that phone call,” came out. Sam pointedly cleared his throat and pretended to elaborate, “the, uh, one you made fast. Like, just in time. And we made it.”  
  
“Damn right, you did. ‘Cause that’s what you do.” Her previously impish grin softened into something warm, squeezing Sam’s hand the best she could. “Saving people, hunting things—you’re the good guys.”  
  
Lips pursing together delayed Sam’s gut ‘it doesn’t feel that way anymore,’ knowing he had to put more thought into this.  
  
Charlie had made it, this was a win, there was no reason to drag anything down. Even if Sam _ wanted _ to talk, to seek help from his best friend, she was under the influence and wouldn’t remember. At the top of the list: Sam didn’t have the right.  
  
He wasn’t innocent and ambushed.  
  
Her recovery was everything.  
  
“Hey, I’m gonna grab the nurse now that you’re up. It’s been touch and go and—” This time, Charlie whined loudly in opposition, but Sam couldn’t be talked down. “I’m gonna get her and you can tell her all about this giant, fuzzy cotton ball, all right?”  
  
“Only if she’s hot!” Charlie squealed the final protest, right as Sam reached the doorway.  
  
He turned back in delight, announcing, “Oh, she is. And your type.” With a hearty tap on the frame, Sam’s excitement was palpable. And genuine. “You being this chatty means I’m getting some front row entertainment. And you’re screwed, Charlie—best of luck!”  
  
Some high trills and out-of-time squeaks responded as he turned towards the nurses station and—  
  
They were oddly beautiful. Sam basked in every chirp, squeal and every her discombobulated puffing—she’d make it, she was already exceeding expectations. All he wished was that Dean had been here to enjoy it with him.  
  


Nurses and doctors swirled in and out of the room in time with Charlie’s naps and doses of medications.  
  
In these moments, her willpower and resilience astounded Sam. Nothing shook her. Nor her outlook, her positive energy, and Sam soaked in her company whenever she came around and let himself get lost.  
  
It wasn’t until much later that Sam’s phone rang.  
  
He didn’t think when he answered it, assuming Dean was calling to check up on Charlie, giving a half-assed explanation for leaving (or telling Sam he didn’t need to explain himself) and shuffled closer to hand the phone off to her.  
  
Sam didn’t want to hear any bullshit, he wasn’t in the mood for excuses and when he answered, he received a surprise. The voice wasn’t his brother’s.  
  
It was Cas and the rattle and rasp in his lungs was alarming—it must have read on his face, because Charlie caught on and tried to eavesdrop by proximity alone.

God. He struggled to punch out the news, relaying it back to Sam was urgent. He knew the angel for a long time, inside out and backwards. For Cas to be straining there was no doubt: his condition was a mirror image of Charlie.  
  
When they locked eyes, he knew she could hear the rattle of blood inside his chest, his attempts to cough it out and the labor of even _ moving, _wherever he was. Sam’s instinct was to order him to get somewhere safe, to find them, but—  
  
What Castiel felt was crucial to tell him was a matter of urgency.  
  
It overhauled Sam’s mind, clipping words down to phases and bullet points—only then could he process it.

The Styne family had been wiped out. Exterminated. Even the children who hadn’t integrated, that were still innocent. By the hands of his brother. 

Dean had finally snapped.  
  
This may be _the step _too far he’d been worried about all along, but there was still a chance amidst the panic. Because Cas had given him information and Dean was okay. Now Sam had to weave things around, to make someone believe him—

Schooling his voice to something calm, he reassured Cas, “At least you were fighting with Dean and he had back-up, that makes a world of difference, you know? Where is he now?”

The silence on the other line worried Sam, if Cas was okay, if the call had been disconnected, if there were more of them—

Castiel’s response of, “I don’t know where he is, Sam.” The pause didn’t make sense, like a punchline was dropped and he didn’t get it. “I wasn’t fighting the Stynes. By the time I arrived, Dean had nearly slaughtered them all, I-I attempted to intervene. _ Dean _ turned on me. He has a head start, but I’ll…look for him.”  
  
Sam’s blood ran cold, the twist haunting.  
  
Everything around him frosted over and he couldn’t move. His body was suspended in a frozen solid, icy lake—even when Charlie’s hand clamped over his wrist it...barely registered.

“No! Don’t you dare!” Sam couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “Just get here, we’re at the hospital. Someone needs to check you out, you sound like shit, Cas.”  
  
Unknowingly, Charlie had been tugging, making hand signals, but Sam was someplace else—he hadn’t picked up on them until now. But when he figured them out, a swell of relief (no matter how momentary) washed through him.  
  
“Stay here with Charlie. She needs someone and says you’re good company. I need you guys together and I’ve got to know you’re safe,” Sam rambled off, “ I-I-I’ve got to go find my brother. Please, if you could just get here—” and he was already on his feet when Charlie flashed him a thumbs up, and waved him off.

Cas’, “I’m on my way,” was all he needed to make his exit with Charlie’s (albeit, worried) reinforcement.  
  
This was the day Sam prayed every night would never come. But it was here.

Fuck, he better have gotten it right, Sam had been chasing his tail for days.  
  
Sam already knew the patterns, he could trace Dean when he was acting erratically. When he wanted to throw Sam off his scent. This was an entirely new ballgame. This time, he needed to sort through the madness and pick up the minute links—and once he managed to figure it out, he was _one_ step behind!  
  
He could pick all the motel room locks in the US, that was easy, but who knew if this was—

Oh—  
  
Wow. This place was a wreck—it wasn’t the work of a dirty tenant, it bore the brunt of an insane tantrum.

Silent on his feet, Sam wanted to be the one making the discovery, not finding himself staring down the barrel of a gun for breaking and entering. He peered around at what he could make out: after all, the place was only lit by the flashing static of the fritzing TV.  
  
All the lamps were thrown down and clattered into pieces. Mirrors shattered and littered the floor, the ceramic pieces became clumped, jagged edges—every obstacle could slice. Even the desk had been knocked over and—Dean—!

Finally, he’d caught up! _Finally_! But he hadn't expected to find Dean laying face down and sprawled out across the floor.

Hell no, he didn’t think—he _ acted—_springing forward and skidding to his knees to gather him up in his arms. To gently fold his limbs until he was able to cradle Dean up onto his lap.  
  
Sam took a massive breath—seeing him, touching him, feeling his weight—it felt like a thousand years passed. Taking his time (for both himself and Dean), his actions stayed languid: brushing his forehead tenderly, feeling for a temperature (or lack therefore of) and whispered his name—trying to get him to stir.  
  
God, he was aching for a reaction...anything...

It made him wonder—what could have knocked him out like this?

Dean began grumbling, stirring, slowly coming to, “Am I dreamin’?”

“Heh,” Sam grinned widely, “I think I’d be a lot more naked if you were.”

“We can make that happen.” He gave Dean credit: he was trying to be playful, but he looked like hell.

He was pale, sickly, Sam was expecting black eyes flashing back at him when he finally looked up. There was blood drying on the front of his shirt, adding to patches that were long since stained. His features were sunken in.  
  
This wasn’t his Dean. This wasn’t the demon, the madman fueled by the Mark—this was...a shell.  
  
For some reason, that hurt more than anything.  
  
Whatever was wrong, Sam always felt compelled to help, to fix it...and he’d never seen his brother so low and defeated. All that mattered was making this right now that he’d found him. Sam wasn’t letting Dean out of his sight, come hell or high water.  
  
They needed to talk. That would help Sam figure out what Dean needed, what he needed to be. Whether it was a leader, taking the reins—when Dean was too weak, when he couldn’t—to turn back on the right path or...they’d figure something out.  
  
Sam still needed to dig. To answer his own fear of Dean thinking he, himself, went too far...but they’d cross that bridge. Afterwards, they’d find another path beyond it, and they’d stay together.  
  
He refused to be sidelined, pushed away, Sam refused to go through the heartache of distance they’d just been put through, the uncertainty of what he’d find when he caught up. They’d moved past this, Sam proved himself over and over again—one way or another, they’d find _ their _way.

“Let’s get you into bed?” He kept his voice low, muffling the grunts that came with every attempt to maneuver the dead weight in his lap. Dean wasn’t helping. Not even a little bit. Sam tried to give him some incentive: “I’ll get naked when we’re finally in bed.”

That seemed to work like magic, triggering muscle movement, and Sam chuckled.  
  
Once they were up, the choice between the two beds was difficult, they were both covered in debris. Sam eventually brushed all the crap off one that wasn’t pin-pricked by shattered glass and tucked Dean under the covers.

After he settled in next to him, Sam whispered, “Promise me. _ Promise me_, that if I fall asleep, you won’t run out on me?”

“Can’t promise anything,” was Dean’s honest answer. “I’ll make it easy to find me, though.”

“This has _not_ been easy. I’ve been miserable, _terrified _I’ll lose you again. I don’t want to, I—”

“I’m summoning Death tomorrow.”  
  
It was a statement.  
  
All the things Sam _ wanted _ to say vanished, because any time Death came into the picture, the world could fly off its axis into the sun because Death was annoyed—merely summoning him was taking that risk, and—  
  
But Dean had made up his mind. All the time that passed without Sam by his side that he’d spent running away, he’d ran towards a decision. And whatever it was, scared the living fuck out of Sam. He knew he had to do something.

“W-Why?” Figuring out what to ask was the most difficult part—he needed to understand the motivation.  
  
So much had happened, things Sam still didn’t know, but one thing was a priority: could he still help? Or was his brother was too far gone?  
  
It was alarming, how fast he had his answer.

“I’m sure he’s the only one—only thing—that can make sure I stay dead. Or have a plan. One where I’m not a threat to humanity,” Dean’s voice was hollow, he sounded tired, he had nothing more to give.  
  
That’s when Sam knew he hadn’t caught up to Dean...Dean had stopped trying. Letting Sam catch him.

Sam’s instinct was to beg, “Without me?” but he didn’t want a response. He persisted, “What if you’re not a threat to humanity? Despite the odds, you made for an honest demon.”  
  
While he knew this day would happen it was daunting—but Sam had already begun, he couldn’t turn back. “What if...what if you were missing the one link keeping you safe? Keeping everyone else safe? I know you were rattled by Cain, but what if I knew how to make damn sure you’d never go on a rampage?”

The rise and fall of Dean’s chest completely stopped. “What are you saying, Sammy?”

It was now or never.

“When I turned you back, out of all the things you’d done...what scared you the most was what could’ve happened. Was what you wanted to happen. Do you remember why you stayed away from me? With every shred of willpower you had?” Sam rolled on top of Dean, staring down at his puzzlement and meeting it with steadfast determination. “You were worried about me. Terrified about a concept.”  
  
“A concept that could be crazy enough to work.” Maybe the way Sam’s words dripped in rebellion was to shock life back into his brother again. “What if we curbed each other’s appetite? Evened each other out? It’ll still be us against the world, but I’d be there with you. I’d be able to keep you in line—”

“Because you’d have your powers…” It was a stunned whisper, Dean’s realization hit him like a wave of ice water he didn’t try to mask. “You wouldn’t have to talk me down. You could _make me_ do what you wanted. Control me if I lose it. But do you think a Knight…”  
  
“I destroyed Lilith, Lucifer’s first.” He couldn’t tell where he fell, if talking the line between confident and cocky was for Dean or himself. “She came before the creation of all other demons. Do you really think after that I’d have a problem with a Knight of Hell?”  
  
When he laid out the facts like that, Dean was easily convinced Sam was capable—but he spoke up on what he wasn’t: “I _ can’t _ ask you—”  
  
“You’re not asking, I’m offering. You’re talking about summoning Death, this is our out. And it’s not like this idea came out of thin air.” Chewing his lip and sighing, Sam’s hand rose to cup Dean’s cheek when he admitted, “This was always my worst-case scenario, Dean. I think we’re at the end of the line.”  
  
Sam was surprised when Dean’s arms rushed out to wrap around his waist, knocking him back down, pulling them together. With Dean’s forehead pressed against the length of his neck, Sam shifted them around so his weight wouldn’t be a crushing force. Even when Dean squeezed him harder, like he was holding on for dear life.  
  
His whisper tickled Sam’s throat, humming out, “This was what you were trying to tell me before you got black-out drunk, wasn’t it?”  
  
If he didn’t know better, he’d almost say he could detect the smallest, tiny hint of amusement hidden behind that wall.  
  
Playing to that part of Dean, he chuckled, “Wouldn’t you need to be fucked up to lay out a plan like that? And…” Getting that same itch, he kissed Dean’s forehead. He tangled their legs together and tasked himself with being sure their skin was as flush possible. “Back then, there was still hope. Maybe I didn’t want to expect the worst, because maybe if we didn’t plan for it...it wouldn’t come.”  
  
With a snort, Dean dug his chin into his shoulder, ruefully groaning out, “When have we gotten that lucky?” but Sam couldn’t help but notice—  
  
He hadn’t been shut down.  
  
Dean was still listening without admonishing him, without snapping at him, maybe he was considering it. So Sam pushed forward like his life depended on it. Because it did: it was a fact, without Dean, he couldn’t go on.

“Yeah, it’s different—maybe crazy—and we’d be different, but…we’ve been those people before. And we still loved each other then.” He wanted the fact to really sink in.  
  
That had been the deal-breaker when it came to Sam’s brainstorming and weighing scales. If he was unsure of a wild dynamic change, something that would push them apart, he would have dismissed the whim a long time ago. All he had was confidence. Knowing his own feelings weren’t altered, the only thing that fucked them up was the secrets and his desperation for Dean’s approval or forgiveness. Power didn’t change love. Only adding to that, was Dean’s own admission, as a demon: he’d _ wanted this_.  
  
“I’ve got faith in us, that we’ll beat the learning curve. Hell, we could go back to hunting, too. We’d be strong, unstoppable. Nothing out there could touch us.” Even when his thumb tenderly brushed against Dean’s cheekbone, Sam was actively forcing himself to remain cool under pressure, casual, to ease Dean’s mind, to keep his ideas flowing smoothly.  
  
God, he refused to spook him (especially in his fragile state) because, of fucking course—the fact was, no matter how good it looked on paper: it was still scary. Even Sam, who’d been mulling over the idea for so long _knew it was._

For the fear-factor alone, he smiled—knowing Dean could feel it—and reminded him in earnest, “No matter what, we’re stronger _together_. You can’t deny that, never could.”

“You’d really…you’d really do it? Go back to being a demon-blood junkie? For me?”  
  
—The feeling of Dean’s muscles tensing up beneath him wasn’t a good sign—  
  
“All because back then, I had a sick urge to make you mine? You’d sacrifice yourself because—hey!—it’s only a matter of time before I kick the bucket again! So you might as well, since I’d have that same sick urge once I’m a demon, _again_?” Dean spat the words in disgust, furious at himself. “I _ never _ should’ve told you—”  
  
Why hadn’t he seen this coming? Of Dean feeling the weight of the world, of being the martyr, when it was Sam who’d come to him. Not out of necessity or force, but because it was his choice?

“Shut up. Even if you hadn’t told me, I would’ve come up with the same idea. The difference...I’d be sick over it. I'd hate myself for bringing it up, thinking you’d hate me. If I hadn't known, even suggesting it would’ve killed me.” Sam didn’t mince words, but he did coax him back with scattered kisses. “Only you, Dean. You don’t need to ask. You already have me, I give myself to you, willingly—any way you want me. I love you. And I’ll never stop loving you.”  
  
After a single kiss to Dean’s nose, Sam retreated just enough to see if he’d made an impact, if he’d undone the damage. Yeah, he could feel the tension coiled through Dean’s body relaxed _ just _ enough, but the room was too dark to truly get a read of his expression.  
  
Did it even matter? He was fighting for Dean’s life—for their last chance—would it change him pleading his case? Doing everything in his power to get more than one final night laying beside him again?  
  
Sam pressed on, daring him with logic. “You said it, we both know it: I could stop you. We don’t even know what Death would do. I’m a sure thing. Hell, I could be the _ only _thing. I’m giving us a way for you to stop—when was the last time there was hope for that? Once I have my abilities back, we could have a life together. It’s not a bad set-up.”

“You really, really love me.” He shuddered under Sam’s touch, then hummed with his own bravado, “You know, to put this into motion, you’ll have to kill me first.”

“Wasn’t that your plan tomorrow anyway?“ While that was the first thing to make his stomach turn, Sam went along with the sarcastic tone Dean set. “Or you could help. Jump into traffic, skydive without a parachute, or something. Leave the Horseman out: deal?” 

Holy fuck...when the tides changed and Dean became more receptive it meant everything.  
  
It was his Hail Mary, Sam unsure if he would ever go along with his absolutely bat-shit idea. He didn’t know if being together was enough to keep his brother going anymore.  
  
It pained Sam to think of the last time they’d been separated like this, but the circumstances didn’t—being reunited always calmed the other’s nerves, like magic.

The whispered, “Deal,” wasn’t a hollow promise. Sam wanted to shout from the mountain tops, that finally, Dean convinced him he wasn’t ready to give up.

Dean lengthened his neck until he nipped Sam’s thumb between his teeth. It was a prelude, something to capture his attention. Distracting Sam right before he tilted his chin, surging upward to crash their lips in a kiss—a real, deep, make-your-toes-curl kiss.

Fuck, did Sam need it. Want it. Crave it. God, he’d been dreaming about it—  
  
There was always a chance when he divulged his plan aloud Dean would shout at him. That he’d kick him out on his ass, never wanting to see Sam again. Instead of yelling, he was using his mouth to leave Sam breathless.  
  
Instead of fighting against each other, they were heatedly tumbling around one another. He was using his hands to pin Sam down, right before he scooped him up, clutching and grasping at the other as they rolled—arching and gasping.  
  
All much, much better uses than breaking his heart.

As Dean’s arms enveloped Sam’s waist, distracted hands both dragging along his spine and cupping his ass, Sam sunk his weight into Dean again. This was comfortable, letting him get away with all the things he’d imagined, during all those lonely nights spent chasing him.  
  
Sam grabbed a handful of Dean’s hair and tugged hard, exposing his neck and grazed his teeth along the skin. Sam could feel Dean’s shiver and moan under his lips, and he flicked his tongue and sucked, desperate for more.

It was only when he realized just how much Dean was trembling that he pulled away.

Dammit, he was getting carried away.

Sam forgot all too soon: Dean was still human. He had his limits, no matter how frustrated and aroused he was—his body wouldn’t keep up. And, damn, did he let Sam know with a dangerous snarl the second he pulled away.

The flashing image of when Sam had walked through those doors, when he found Dean...it looked like he’d been hanging on by a thread. Fuck, if it wasn’t for the demonic consequences of the Mark, Sam would’ve thought he was dead on the floor with a face-full of shitty motel carpet.   
  
He couldn’t push too hard, no matter how much he wanted to. No matter how loudly Dean complained.

“Hey…” Sam slowed their pace and waited for Dean’s eyes to meet his. “Let’s rest tonight, okay? But I need you to promise me—_really _promise me—this time.”

With a crooked grin, Dean made it clear he was a captive audience. “Say the words.”

“We’re in this together now. You won’t run out on me tonight. You’re not going to Death?” His stomach was still in knots.

“Yeah, Sammy. I promise.” The way his voice broke when he said it, Sam believed him, even his failed attempt at a humorous: "Why risk it when you're the sure thing, right?"

He believed Dean even more when he used the leverage he had on Sam to flip them around until he was holding him, cradling Sam from behind. It was second nature to settle in, fold his own arms over Dean’s, tightly wrapping his stomach. Feeling Dean shuffling around, working his way into the bed from behind him...he was getting ready for the night.  
  
He wasn’t preparing to run. ...Sam knew what _that_ felt like, too. He'd learned the hard way, after the times he’d woken up alone.

All the anxiety he’d been holding back was blurted out into the simple words of, “Thank you.”

A lingering kiss pressed against his back, the passing heat of a muffled chuckled warmed his shoulder. Dean clucked his tongue and snorted out, “You’re the one who’s saving me.”  
  
After agreeing to the most outrageous and far-fetched plan they’d ever made, the most incredible and unbelievable part was Dean’s disbelief that Sam would do anything for him. That he was loved unconditionally—Sam would jump into the fire, he’d take to the air, he’d swim to the bottom of the ocean for Dean.  
  
Why was it so surprising?

“You know damn well that I-I—” He fiercely blinked away tears, hiding any dryness in his throat that showed signs of cracking. “I can’t...not without you. I don’t want to. I wouldn’t-”  
  
‘_I wouldn’t make it_,’ was what he left unsaid, except he couldn’t say those words to Dean. Instead, he changed them to, “We always find a way. But tonight, we _ both _need our sleep. We’ll take our time working out the rest tomorrow.”

Dean hummed and nuzzled in closer, admitted, “I feel like I could sleep for a week.”

“Then sleep for a week,” Sam looked on the bright side, “We only have to hold each other accountable. It’s always been us against the world, now…we can take the time to just be us. With our own rules. No world to fight against—unless we choose to.”

“For how fucked up we are, it kinda sounds…liberating.” There was something wistful in the moment, a lightness in Dean. “All dark, bloody, evil ritual shit considered.”

“It does, doesn’t it?”

Utter and complete emotionally drainage wasn’t limited to Dean—Sam, in his search, had worn himself ragged too. When he woke up, he was groggy and when he looked towards the wood-splintered window—he could tell it was mid-afternoon.  
  
Afternoon was soon a distant memory, he jolted out of bed when his realest fears came true—he was alone.

Terror crashed through his system, his mind floated above his body, only anchored by nausea.

Sam’s bare feet hit the floor and instantly struck glass, but the pain was the furthest thing from his mind, rushing to search and shouting out, “Dean! Dean, are you—!”

“Hey!” he whipped around the corner of the bathroom, his boots cracking with every footstep as he crossed the debris to Sam. “I’m sorry. I didn’t leave for long, and I’m back now, so…” Dean pursed his lips together awkwardly, unsteady as they stood head to head before he glanced down. “_Fuck_, Sammy. Let me see your feet!”  
  
The air disappeared underneath him, Dean scooping him up off the ground and setting him back down on the bed. Everything happened so fast, Sam’s head was still spinning, while his morning had taken a turn for the worst, here Dean was—flipping out about some cuts.

Still, he couldn’t calm down. Sam’s heart was thumping out of his chest. He was too busy savoring the image of Dean being here, alive and well beside him, and...not on the run again.   
  
He’d taken these small things for granted. How long had it been since Dean slipped into full-on big brother mode? It was ironic, how this was a reason for Dean to freak out.

Shuffling backwards on the bed seemed like a better plan than forcing Dean to assess the damage, crouching on the ground. Sam tried to protest, “It’s not that bad—” when his leg was forcefully crossed and the sole of his foot upturned.

Dean’s brow scrunched in concentration, grumbling, “At least the shards are bigger. Wait until you’re awake next time to frolic around, bitch. You cleaned the shit off’a this bed and put it onto the ground, it wasn’t exactly a surprise attack. Gotta be careful, there’s lots of glass and shit here,” as he griped under his breath, easily plucking out the fragments.

Sam was trying so hard not to bitch and moan about how motel rooms usually _ don’t _have customers hell-bent on destroying everything that isn’t nailed into the floors. The clusterfuck on the ground made it impossible to leave the bed. Eggshells would be easier. Instead, he bit his tongue and let Dean fix things.

“Shit—” Sam cursed out, switching to the other where there was one shard deeply embedded in the arch of his foot. With no callous to stop the harsh, sharp edge, this one had cut through his flesh like butter. “Might need to wrap that one…” When he glanced up, Dean had already moved to grab the first aid kit.

Except as he moved, something seemed off. Sam was trying to figure out if the exhaustion had him down, if he was still sleepy, or if he was dancing around the crap in his path—if he was downright uneasy on his feet—?

In a flash, Dean was back, sitting next to him and dressing that particular wound.  
  
Still, Sam’s interest was piqued. He watched closely and the way his brother’s eyes were somewhat glazed over sent off warning bells. Once his foot was wrapped, Sam led them together, until they were facing each other, cross-legged on the bed.

“Thanks for playing doctor,” Sam tried to keep it light, and dove forward for a kiss.

Yet, Dean’s mouth, for as eager and happy he was to meet Sam’s, was uncoordinated. His lips were a half-second behind, lagging, yet not _ quite _ in slow-motion. That didn’t mean Sam was about to stop kissing him.  
  
Every second he could do so, every time he could show Dean exactly how loved he was, he’d do it. Maybe it was selfish, Sam certainly did have a lot to gain.

Still there was something niggling. A tell in the way Dean moved, reacted, that didn’t sit right—Sam just didn’t know what.

It was too early to be drunk. Even on occasions where Dean’s world was falling apart and he _would_ be blitzed in the middle of the day, that wasn’t it—Sam’s tongue could always taste the alcohol. And his tongue? Was being deliciously thorough.

It was distracting enough that Sam barely noticed when Dean started to unintentionally nod—as though he was falling asleep—until a head butt collided with his forehead. He knew now it wasn’t exhaustion—

Ice shot through Sam’s blood, freezing in his veins. Finally, he had an inkling to what was happening here.

He retracted and cupped Dean’s cheeks to hold his focus, schooling his near-trembling voice, when he asked, “You said you didn‘t leave for long. Dean, where did you go?” He didn’t receive an answer, but he could visibly see Dean’s eyes phasing in and out of focus—still completely preoccupied with Sam’s lips. “Dammit, Dean! Where did you go?!”

The desperate shout finally jolted Dean from his daze, but not like would normally. Nothing about this was normal.

“Errand. Needed to do…something,“ he flippantly avoided the subject, making it hit home for Sam. “I-I didn’t summon Death, dude. If that’s what yer worried ’bout.”

Sam could feel a prickle of tears behind his eyes when he struggled for breath. “You may not have summoned him, but you went looking anyway.”

It was like an innate, instinctual sense that kicked in and broke through Dean’s rapidly deteriorating mental state. Seeing Sam in pain and struggling overpowered everything else, and a rush of adrenaline needing to protect him gave Dean another wind.

He covered Sam’s hands with his own. Intent was there, no matter how blurry his gaze, and Dean implored, “I wasn’t gonna put it on you. No fucking way. I could’a took off, left you with questions, but I wanted to come back. Be with you.” His eyelids grew heavier by the second, as he explained, “I was gonna go nuclear today, but now, I’m stayin’. Guess there’s more than one way to go nuclear, huh? I believe in you, Sammy, and that’s why I came back. ‘Cause you can protect the world. From me.”

“I-I didn’t know all of this would happen so fast, I thought we’d still have time to talk, to plan, to figure out _ when—_” Sam was babbling at the speed of sound, overwrought with panic and fear.  
  
All he had was speed—he didn’t get the luxury of time any longer, Dean had taken that away—he had so many things, countless conversations to talk about, for Dean to listen to...but he nearly unresponsive—  
  
That wasn’t the worst of it.  
  
This wasn’t passing out drunk, this was a special kind of Hell Sam had been through one too many times. Even when they had control, Sam wasn’t prepared to have his heart ripped out. “What did you take? How can we reverse it? Fuck, it doesn’t matter—I’m here, I’m not going anywhere—!”

There was a quirk on the corner of his lips, the barest upturn of a grin when he said, “Can’t schedule this in. The Mark’s too strong, and I knew today was always gonna be the day. Don’t worry, I got some good shit when I raided the pharmacy, it won’t hurt. I’ll just go to sleep and...you’ll let me.” His shrug was weak, “You know what happens next.”

Together, feeling that Dean’s weight was about to topple over, they laid back on the bed—Sam staying curled up against him.

As Dean struggled to keep his eyes open, and just when Sam had convinced himself it was all right, to let go: a question even more terrifying struck him.

Sam was already wrecked, blinking away tears to muffle the whimpers, watching his brother die willingly in front of him—but all his walls broke apart when he asked, “Dean, will you still—_can_ you still love me?”  
  
They never spoke of this. How the fuck had he never brought up something so simple? Simple but life-changing?

All he knew about the first time Dean woke up a demon, was his self-control, his humanity kept him away from Sam. To protect him. But Dean also said that his love was there yet it warped, ‘into something sick.‘ Something that wanted to have him, possess him, make Sam his and keep him.

What if—

What if these were the last moments Dean would ever love him?

Sam’s chest tightened, he could feel the beginnings of heaving sobs, ready to pour out. For as much as he’d planned this ‘worst case scenario,’ had he ever been ready? Was he trying to play God, to have control where there wasn’t any to begin? He hadn’t expected his world to come crashing down around him like this!

Dean’s entire body was relaxed, motionless, his breathing shallow. Barely, only a sigh of a whisper promised him, “C-could never stop lovin’ you, Sammy. No matter what. Always l-love you...” and that exhale collapsed his lungs. They never refilled again.

Time was one of the million unknowns now. As Sam clung to Dean’s lifeless body, cheeks stained with tears, he had no idea when he’d be waking up—only that this time, it would be with black eyes. The one thing that was for certain: Sam wasn’t leaving.  
  
The point of no return had come and gone like a tree along the roadside while riding in the passenger’s seat in a speeding car. It felt the same. Sam had been looking through the window as it flashed by, knowing a U-turn was impossible.  
  
Jesusfuck—he knew he’d been the one to sow the seed—Dean following through before they could blink but—  
  
It was better than Death. The real one on a white horse.  
  
If only he’d had more warning…  
  
Maybe a ripping off the band-aid was easier, Sam could never watch this happen again, how the fuck could anyone work themselves into ‘being okay’ and ‘prepared?’ It would get him the same, they’d end up here.

And from here on out, even with the fear of the unknown, Sam didn’t care how long it took. Hours could turn into days, he didn’t care about anything except who was wrapped in his arms. The shoddy mattress and squeaky springs fell silent, splinters and broken pieces of the room—shards gleaming in the sunlight—were forgotten.  
  
What was once a hysterical battlefield turned into a portrait: Sam and Dean tragic statues of their own story.  
  
Unable to tell if he’d utterly shut down or if his mind was gearing up towards overdrive, Sam was glued to this spot. Until he starved, until his body gave out, nothing in this world could move him an inch. He wasn’t leaving Dean now. He wasn’t leaving him in the future. He’d never leave his side again..  
  
He needed to get his goddamn head in the game: this _ was _ their life, their new normal and they’d chosen it together.  
  
What Sam should be doing, what he should be funneling and transforming the frenetic pain into energy. There was no way he could be in this shape when Dean came back from the other side, he couldn’t show weakness. Their plan could fall apart before it even started if Sam wasn’t ready—wasn’t strong enough—to play his part.  
  
On borrowed time already, he honed in—clenching his mental fortitude, compartmentalizing and skipping to the bargaining part of mourning. Swallowing down the pain, he dug deep....striking the iron shell at his core: his survival instinct.  
  
Logic, strength and quick thinking kept Sam breathing, that deep, feral reserve was what got him through Hell.  
  
He couldn’t easily float it to the surface, he had to scratch and claw. Any other time, it’d be exhausting, impossible, yet cradling his brother’s lifeless body was worse than the Cage.

Once it kicked in, he’d know. The initial body-slamming rush was...unexplainable, and soon, Sam’s equilibrium adjusted indiscriminately—moving in and out of numbness, climbing back up to thrilling heights, if only to keep himself going.  
  
_ That _ was his only opportunity.  
  
Facing and fooling a demon head-on (mustering up the bravado to announce everything was on track) wasn’t the only thing he refused to fuck up, hell no. Sam needed to take it a step further. After all, he could only fool Dean for so long (if he even managed that) Sam had to be the one who dropped the other shoe.  
  
Yes. While he _ had _ been the one to sit with this concept longer, he was baffled about the follow through. The idea of spiraling backwards into darkness for love wasn’t even a question. For Dean, he wouldn’t hesitate.  
  
Before he knew it, Sam’s musing turned into a countdown. Not only did he need to be ready, but he needed to act as soon as Dean awoke. Especially since reigning in Dean’s bloodlust laid solely on his shoulders.

What would happen after Dean’s struggle against the Mark ended? When this burden was lifted? Would there be relief? Rebellion? Would Dean’s ’humanity’ kick in again once Sam took control?  
  
...it was what came before that worried him.

Except, why would Dean dash away, taking the initiative and launch into step one of their plan wasn’t solid? Why would he let Sam talk him into becoming a thing he hates if he wasn’t committed? Dean previously made arrangements of his own—yet, he’d taken ‘Sam’s nuclear option’ instead.  
  
Sure, Dean could be dramatic, but no one had the balls to fuck him over like this. Jesus, Sam was his own worst enemy. It was all in his head. Just because he was a demon didn’t mean Dean was lying. He’d made the promise _ before_, there’s no way he’d abandon him, run away...even though he was a shell of himself…  
  
The lightbulb went off—Sam had leverage: he could ensnare the demon, no matter what it took.   
  
Only Sam was able to grant him the _ one _ fucking _ thing _ he’d craved. His desire was enough to conflict the demon and haunt the human, so much so he confessed.  
  
Demons were selfish and he knew how to work his brother, in any form. Sam knew if things took a turn, he could deny or reward him accordingly.  
  
Huh. Maybe it wasn’t innocent love coaxing Sam towards the darkness. Thinking about it, he wasn’t kicking and screaming at all.  
  
Hell, he was already halfway there—ensuring an easy (but bombproof) transition. A small part of him buzzed to life, like a reflex, knowing he was capable of handling a Knight through knowledge and ultimatums alone. Maybe the potential he could create inside their new normal was enticing, helping Sam along...

With certainty, Sam refused to let Dean say no to him. He’d make damn sure the newly-reborn demon would never leave his side. Whether he played fair was up to Dean.

As soon as he could, (Sam unwavering, unafraid, and determined) he needed his powers back.   
  
Again and again, time was working against him: clueless about how long it would take.  
  
While it wasn’t his first rodeo, and while the outcomes seemed the same, the circumstances weren’t ideal.  
  
Way back when...had been learning, understanding what he was capable of. He’d hit bumps, roadblocks, the journey had been maddening, but when Famine came to town—God—he’d tried everything to bury that memory. His powers may’ve shot up through the roof, but it was only after unleashing a bloodbath and basking in the slaughter.  
  
Never, not once, had he been in control.  
  
Dean’s previous words: about wanting to get Sam hooked, to string him along, keep him on a short leash—those would turn back to bite him. Maybe his brother never truly knew the extent of his abilities, or his own downfall: giving Sam time to entertain the ‘what ifs’.  
  
Every other time, Sam had weaponized himself. He’d scorched Lilith out of existence, just as he’d done to Famine—equal parts cold and in flames on a rampage.  
  
Diving back down...his motive couldn’t have been more different.

There was a side of Sam that thrived in the shadows, but his motive was love. They’d run in circles, doing this dance a million times...preparing to do the worst, become the monster, all in an effort to keep his brother alive. To give him something to _ live for_.  
  
That’s what Dean was...Sam’s reason. And even with the questions (the millions of things he didn’t get to ask before it all fell apart) hopefully, he could. God, Sam _ prayed _he’d love him. If not now, soon.

This was the most painful, gut-wrenching part. Even when Sam knew it was temporary.

It never got easier, it ached and hurt and tore at Sam’s very soul to see Dean laying here, completely motionless, growing cold and clammy.

Sam slotted himself against his brother, squeezing in as close to Dean as he could muster. Knowing this may be his last chance (his walls unable to hold for a second more) Sam gave in. Allowing himself to dissolve into the sea of devastation, succumbing to the riptide, sucking him out to sea.  
  
All he could do was wait. Sam echoed the words back to himself (on repeat, like a broken record) _Dean would wake up. _

The babbled loop was all Sam could manage, somewhere in there were reassurances: _ Dean said he’d still love him_. And that’s why they were doing this, that’s all that mattered in the end, right?  
  
This was not the morning he had in mind.  
  
Then again, neither was the night before, or the questions of their future. Whatever it was, Sam wanted it to get here. Only then could they get to work.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Warning Disclaimer:** Dean decides to become a demon again by ODing on medication


	4. Chapter 4

“Sammy…Sammy—”

His name...the words were crooned, seemingly far away, but he could feel them in a puff of air against his skin. Slowly, too slowly, Sam gathered the jigsaw pieces. Suddenly realizing he was waking up from an exhaustive slumber, he was alarmed he’d drifted off_ at all—_

He couldn’t pinpoint when it happened. How long had he been out? Although...there were times the lines blurred and when he was blinded by the swell of tears, he’d tried to fix it by closing his eyes, cutting out the root of the problem.  
  
Instead, it dragged on and escalated into a never ending battle—he must have fucking cried himself to sleep, and—!  
  
Wait..._Dean—_!

Any leftover haze vanished and Sam’s eyes flew open.  
  
Instead, shock took its place, shaking Sam’s foundation like an earthquake, tremors shooting out through his limbs. It was those jostles (highlighting intertwined intimacy and flush skin) that confirmed neither had moved, Sam was still holding onto Dean for dear life, and—  
  
_—There._ Right there, mere inches from where Sam clung, Dean flashed a pair of amused and—_yes_, black as night—eyes. “You’re back…” Part of him was in disbelief, but it didn’t matter, he was _ overjoyed_.  
  
After Sam’s crushed heart threatened to give out again, something as simple as color didn’t register. He knew what he signed up for: whether Dean’s return had undertones of black, green or fucking purple was irrelevant. The point was: _ Sam could_.  
  
Change was inevitable. And change, he could work with—loss, he’d never get over. Demon or not, Dean’s voice was the tipping point that spun Sam’s world back into rotation again. Maybe the third time would work out...

“Yeah, I am—but you’re not doing me any favors....yer kinda squashing me. Unless we’re going for a new record and the plan’s to kill me again, how ‘bout you let up, little bro?” Dean raised an eyebrow, trying to squirm around and Sam realized, yes, he was absolutely pinning him down.  
  
While the throwaway comment made Sam cringe, the fact Dean hadn’t lost his sense of humor had to be a win, right?

Even so, Sam had to approach this carefully. Falling asleep put him behind, his intricate planning, the steps and precautions weren’t fresh when the situation’s delicacy hadn’t lessened. He couldn’t exactly shoulder the blame.  
  
Not only was there no manual for your lover-turned-friendly-demon, but there wasn’t a cheat-sheet for ‘managing and wrangling your lover-turned-demon’ who additionally needs to ‘_think _ he’s in control while a blood-junkie works behind the scenes,’ hopefully turning the tides before the jig is up.  
  
Yeah. More than ever, Sam knew shouldn’t have fallen asleep. But he had no regrets about waking up to something this beautiful.  
  
He never thought he’d call Dean’s squirming and ungraceful scooting beautiful. But as they were rolling around to undo the knot Sam had made of their limbs for a little autonomy, it was just that: stunning. It was impossible to tear his eyes away, but Dean didn’t seem to mind.  
  
In fact, he didn’t stray far, he didn’t take off and run for cover—charging Sam with even more determination. No way in hell he’d forgive himself if he gave Dean a reason to run. Pausing too long may be one of those things to make it weird, and Sam’s words needed to be deliberate, concise.  
  
Sam knew his company and (no matter what image Dean painted in his own mind) he wasn’t anyone new—not really: his brother was still his brother. The same fuckin’ soulmate he’d follow to the ends of the earth. That’s when his messy brain cleared.  
  
All his speeches, his heartbroken attempt at a bullet-point presentation, he’d spent so much time being hyper aware of his audience. Reaching out to the Dean left behind. Addressing the newly awoken version facing him. The one who should remember everything (and optimistically honor) the plan.  
  
That’s when Sam saw he was a goddamn moron. Both were Dean, neither was different, and treating ‘them’ like it was setting up his own over-complicated, haphazard marathon. Dean was Dean, maybe his rough edges were visible and his inner strength manifested through the occult, but Sam had been there (he was heading there) and nothing changed.  
  
In the midst of that clearing fog, Sam kept returning to one, simple explanation: what if this was who they were meant to be?  
  
It was in their bloodlines, and even when these horrors were first thrust upon them—as a waking nightmare—what did they do once free? They willingly returned. Because being human, being normal, it wasn’t the stuff they were made of.  
  
No way, he’d chat Dean up about it anytime soon but Sam’s persistent inner turmoil, for the first time, calmed from gale-force winds to a peaceful, steady brook. From acceptance. Every fight to be ‘cured’ of their darkness led to far more damaging consequences, because, “it’s the right thing to do.”  
  
They fought fate and destiny at every turn, and suddenly some age-old wisdom defines them? Their lives were chosen, both kept circling back to hunting, to each other. Sam knew in his gut this was the right path, they should be able to choose who they want to be.  
  
First rule: Sam wouldn’t apologize. Not just because holding Dean kept him from unraveling completely, but saying ‘sorry’ kicked off open season when it came to demon taunting. It came naturally and Dean was a smartass from birth. 

“How do you feel?” Sam wondered, and tacked on a curious, “Still high from the drugs? Thanks for that, you know. Forgetting to tell me.”

“Hey, it was a _much_ better exit than getting impaled on an angel blade! And I gotta say, the eye candy playing me out the whole time I was OD’ing—_way _ better than any motel’s pay-per-porn. Those sweet-nothings were the cherry on top.” Dean perched against the headboard and tilted his chin, analyzing Sam. “You really think you’ve got the guts? To go through with your plan?”  
  
If _ only _he had a clue...

The challenge sparked Sam’s narrowed eyes and flooded his veins with determination. One more light bulb popped, undeniably vibrant and washing the world away because _ preparing _ for Dean and _ being with him _ were two different things.  
  
The balancing act between words and actions that Sam rehearsed to perfection didn’t matter. Although grief lured him onto some giant chess board, even when it made sense at the time, trying to gain control was a coping mechanism.  
  
Prepared lines. Calculated actions. His back-up plans: those were for another day. Now, all Sam needed was _ to feel_, to be apart of this moment and breathe.  
  
He hoped the fleeting smile had gone unnoticed when he joined Dean against the headboard. “If you’re trying to scare me off or push me away, you’re gonna have to try harder than that.”

Just as Dean opened his mouth, Sam decided he didn’t care about the answer—he felt bold—shutting him up with a rough kiss. Fierce enough to stun the demon, steal the air from his lungs and pull a surprised, wanton moan from Dean’s chest.  
  
The timbre of his happy hum rumbled low, down to a register that mimicked a hungry purr. He chased after Sam, “Now _ that’s _ the kind of trying I like…” before realizing he wouldn’t catch him. Not yet.  
  
Not until Sam let him.

The temptation of Dean’s lips, glistening and pink, was too sweet to abandon...so he indulged. A flicker of Sam’s tongue traced along the parted seam before sucking Dean’s lip swollen, rolling them between is teeth.  
  
Delighted was the word: from husky and lustful moans, his racing breath, his rising poise on the bed, like he was preparing to launch—and his unabashed surprise. When Sam interrupted him, grabbing Dean by the chin to stop him in his tracks, he used his grip to focus his attention. Raising Dean’s hackles, like he was winding up to fight, but refraining from pure intrigue.  
  
Sam wouldn’t disappoint.  
  
“I think you’re being a dick because you’re nervous. You skipped to the last chapter and you’re waiting for an opening. Any opening to ignore what was supposed to happen in-between and move on. But that’s not how this works.” Sam took his time, noting that while Dean didn’t look particularly happy, he wasn’t struggling. So he pressed forward.  
  
“I get it. I _ do_, I’ve missed you, and I’ve missed us together. Especially, now that you’ve got some fight back in you, that’s probably why the suspense is killing me. So Dean...how long did it take?” His question was paired with a spreading grin—Sam went in for the kill: in a cool, even blase approach: “It’s gotta be itching your brain, right? I mean, anyone else waking up after a suicide would want to talk about it. I know _ I tried_. But you’ve got bigger fights to pick, don’t you?”  
  
The tell-tale twitch in Dean’s jaw was a sign he was about to buckle, yet Sam steadily persisted, daring to lean forward. His words ghosted across Dean’s cheek, their noses brushing and their lips almost—_almost—_reconnected.  
  
“I couldn’t hold back but I’m not sorry, I haven’t had a chance to kiss you in so long, I had to. Makes for a good distraction after a shitty day and maybe I thought it’d be helpful for both of us. More so, in reminding you. Giving you a taste of what you never got last time.” Sam didn’t flinch or look away when he said, “Me.”

Dean poorly masked an abruptly-swallowed growl with a wolf-whistled, a millisecond away from another attempted launch—but Sam knew how to handle him, how to stop him in his tracks. Sometimes it required finesse, today it involved a fistful of hair and an imploring voice. How he managed didn’t have to make sense, it only had to work.

“A lot’s happened, Dean—I already know your mindset changed. I need you to tell me how much. Human-You started this and put you in these shoes, landing you right here—because everything _ would _work out and we figured out how to beat the system.” He refused to say ‘demon-you,’ he hoped Dean saw the purpose, knowing what Sam knew: there was only one Dean. “I’m all in, I want this to work, I’m ready. Instead of acting like a brat, tell me: what’s your next move?”

He was pensive. In fight or flight mode. Not that Sam blamed him.

Surprised that he stayed in one place for so long, Sam continued what he’d been doing this entire, Hellish day: he waited.

“The only way this plan’ll work?” When Dean suddenly spoke up, Sam knew he’d gotten under his skin, his voice booming in challenge, “Is if you can get it up. …With the blood, obviously. Getting your cock hard with a few dirty words is easy, you’re bent over and begging for me like you were made for it.”

“That’s what it comes down to, huh?” Sam repeated back, knowing they’d eventually go head to head. The way he came out the other side was their defining moment, it set their path for...life.  
  
Like a part of Dean succumbed to pressure, fearing himself and pulling the plug once he was given an out. His brother worked swiftly and efficiently. He probably figured (or rather, felt a sense of entitlement) he’d done his part, it was time for Sam to pull the trigger and his continued provocation clued him into Dean’s unspoken doubts it would happen. It was understandable, Dean’s biggest fear was being left, now his emotions were amplified.  
  
So when the demonic side rose to the surface he got right to the point, dead set on two jobs. The first was gauging whether Sam would step up, to finish their pact. And while unspoken Sam knew, Dean was planning to define and explore his infatuation.  
  
If everything panned out smoothly.  
  
“I guess I’ll start doing some research, see if there’s any demon activity in the area. Or maybe we should head back to the Bunker, a summoning could be easier, or—” Sam was baiting him, to get a rise out of Dean.

_ Fuck_, did he get one—

In a flash, he was trapped underneath the demon with hands squeezing around his throat. Dean’s eyes were dark as night, snarling down at him, “You belong _ to me_. You’ll only feed from _ me_. Do you understand, Sammy?”

“Y-yes. I know, I w-was fucking with you,” he struggled to fill his lungs, choking out the reminder, “you kill me, I-I stay dead. I don’t get another c-chance,” which made him finally release his grip.

What really surprised the hell out of Sam was the vibrant, utterly wicked smirk on Dean’s face.

“You’re fun, I was stupid to stay away before,” Dean snickered and barely ducked out of sight when he reached down to the floor. It didn’t take long for him to return, wielding the same kind of glass shards that gouged Sam’s foot. Except this time was different—poised intentionally to cut his skin. “This is kind of poetic and shit coming full circle, huh?”

Dean paused long enough for Sam to get back up to his ass and collect himself. No sooner did he say, “Tell me where that sweet spot is. Where you used to love getting your fix.” His laughter was bitter and resentful along with the comment, “At least I don’t have to worry about you keeping an open mind, you’ve fucked monsters and demons before. Being bad—or really, banging bad—is kind of your thing. Just tell me how to make it good for you, Sammy.” Abruptly shaking his head, Dean corrected himself, “No, tell me because I’m gonna make it _better_ than you could dream up. I’ll blow your mind until everyone, everything, vanishes.”

The back-handed comments, the come-ons, the passive-aggressive nature and the natural _nurture_ was giving Sam whiplash, he didn’t know _how _to respond or _ what _ to respond _to_. The core remained the same, the unavoidable time had arrived and it was time to pay Dean (his commitment) back.  
  
If Dean was serious about being able to erase the past, Sam’s final bits of hesitation would fly out the window. The only, singular fear left was rooted from the things he’d done down a well-intended road that brought Hell on Earth and nothing good.  
  
No matter if it was a decade or last week, the ghosts of their past would always be a dark shadow—the only move was forward. Sam’s voice didn’t even shake when he said, “I’ll let you choose. Where do you want my mouth?”

“Ditching your flask of shame this time?” Dean’s limitless zeal was both familiar and distorted. “Straight from the tap?”

“Why not? What good is keeping a back-up supply when I have no intentions of leaving you?” The words came easily because they were honest and, Sam thought, rather obvious.  
  
They resonated with Dean. In a strange way, the progression of watching Dean’s reawakening, of his wickedness beginning to ripple out before blasting through the still waters surface—it wasn’t off-putting. No, it was actually enticing.  
  
Interesting, how brazen power and sin could be so alluring when it wasn’t chasing you with a hammer.  
  
Sam’s captivation was dangerous because he wanted more and his gut reaction was to provoke Dean, but that was a temporary fix. A coaxing approach would help him win the long game, he had to focus!  
  
“I’ve thought about this hundreds of times, hundreds of ways. I already know how your dark side operates. For months, I chased after you—researching, interviewing, following your every move—and I was always one step behind. But that meant I was there to see the aftermath, and you have no idea how much I learned from that.” That was something he’d wanted to tell Dean for a long time, but worried he’d mistake the facts for guilt. “I don’t know the end, but I’m damn sure how it begins.”  
  
The confident man in front of him wouldn’t care. Even if Dean warily questioned his motive, the fact Sam was fighting a gravity-like force and nearly crawling into Dean’s lap should’ve proved differently.  
  
The raised eyebrows and sarcastic, “Oh?” spurred him on. “Why don’t you tell me everything _I_ don’t know about me?”  
  
“That would take too much time,” he quipped back, unable to stop his cheeky tone. “Besides, it’s not about how you ran. It’s piecing together the little details you told me—remembering every nuance and shift when we were together. What you thought was drastic enough to cut ties, I didn’t. Or else I wouldn’t have asked you to do this. It’s not like that was the first time you tried to kill me.”  
  
“That’s fair,” Dean admitted with an appreciative nod. “But you’re stalling.”  
  
“No, I’m not. You’re stubborn, you’re stuck in your ways. Now’s the only chance I get to spell it out for you: I want it. All of it. No matter how twisted you think shit gets up there, I already know—it’s inside both of us.” When he reached out and grabbed Dean’s wrist, the one grasping the glass—the response was surprise.  
  
Sam’s heart picked up a bit, choosing to speak his thoughts aloud, “I think this is who we’re meant to be,” and end this.  
  
“You’re gonna get off on this, I can see it already. The thought of breaking me, keeping me on a short leash, you love it, don’t you?” Sam still needed to fuel Dean’s illusion. Believing he’d be the one holding control forever—but Dean didn’t know how it worked. Sam’s fingertips grazed the outline of Dean’s jaw, deliberate when he pronounced, “Once you change me, you’re gonna think of me as your pet. You won’t know, but I’ll probably like it. But you’re going to have to work for it. ”  
  
It would only be a matter of time before Sam regained his strength and he could turn the tables. That’s when things would get interesting. But while it was Sam’s choice, it would be Dean’s cross to bear—he’d be physically unable to go without.  
  
Somehow, if his current enthusiasm was anything to go by, Sam didn’t think he’d mind. Or he’d quickly learn to.

“Get over here, _pet_.” He beckoned Sam closer, the shard of glass reflecting a glint of light as it moved.

While neither shying away or propelling in, Sam moved with a steady pace. They were practically nose-to-nose when he abandoned his own contact, and he waited.

For the first time, it didn’t matter how close Dean was, the only thing in that room holding his attention was the jagged chunk of mirror. How the width hadn’t bit into Dean’s hand yet was a mystery. His hyper-focus on the sharp, razor-like edge rose at Dean’s discretion, higher, until it reached his throat.

Sam held his breath when the edge angled in. His skin bowed against the pressure, yet when he pulled it away, there was no crimson trail. That’s when he knew the demon inside Dean was fucking with him. If Sam wasn’t teetering on the edge, he would’ve punched him.

Dean chuckled and added some drama when he decided, “Nah, you’re no vamp, Sammy,” then moved again. It was another false-start, another skipped heart-beat, and fake-cut along the meat of his shoulder. “No. Still doesn’t feel quite right...”

After all this, Sam was becoming increasingly frustrated. What if there was a chance, deep down, Dean’s humanity was the thing holding him back? It happened before. Maybe he was waiting for Sam to snap. Or…maybe Sam snapping was how to win the game?

If he’d already gotten his first taste, if Sam was hooked, he’d shove Dean down without hesitation. He’d have long since stolen that broken glass from his brother’s hand, blood leaking from his own, clamping down on it, aching to dig into Dean’s flesh to get a taste. 

But…Sam wasn’t there yet.

It felt like a lifetime ago, questioning if he’d gag or muscle memory would wind up helping. It was always the unknown that had his stomach in knots.

Dean was watching him like a hawk, he could see aggravation, and he was enjoying it. For what reason, was beyond Sam. Maybe it was his fascination, Dean trying to garner even more visceral reactions, but it made him sloppy. With his rapt attention on Sam, one such pass—

Dean slipped.

He nicked his wrist, grunting in annoyance. It began a chain reaction, his irritation caused him to squeeze the edges of the glass too hard, his hand began bleeding as well.

Wide-eyed and interested at the turn of events, Dean tossed the glass away and offered forth both his left wrist and right hand. “Well, looks like it’s up to you now.”

He had to give Dean credit, he’d almost fooled him. Still, Sam could see it in his eyes—this had been an accident, and Dean (deep down in there) was _ still _ battling against himself, despite everything.  
  
His willpower and strength was unbelievable. Even after agreeing with Sam’s plan, one that involved dying that he eagerly went through with, he didn’t care about himself. In the end, he was trying to protect Sam, everything about his actions (his words hollow bravado) spoke louder, he hated the thought of tainting him. _ God_, it was all—!

That’s how Sam broke.

He reached out and seized hold, his grip high on both Dean’s wrists, reeling him in. Any last-minute anxieties were pushed away in a far corner of his mind, his love was stronger than anything else. That’s what this was about.  
  
His last desperate question of a dying Dean had been if he was still capable of loving him—this served as proof.  
  
Sam undeniably knew as a blood junkie, his love for Dean never changed. Yeah, he’d fucked up during that chapter. He was manipulated and his focus was redirected, but if anything, his passion was ignited to a level it had never been before. He only wished they’d been on better terms so Sam could’ve shown him.  
  
That time had come, he’d make up for it.

Using his mouth to clean the wound on Dean’s hand, created an echo the moment the blood touched his tongue. Maybe he was on autopilot, both trying to lap the lacerations dry while something tangible struck and jarred his memory.  
  
He could feel his body’s reaction to a stimulation lighting up parts of his brain he’d forgotten how to tap into, and was sending his current senses into overdrive. Looking back, thinking he may be bothered by this was hilarious, he wanted more—

When he turned his focus to Dean’s wrist, Sam could see the cut paled in comparison to the small needle-pricks on his palm. This one was freely flowing down his arm, and showed no signs of stopping.  
  
Forcing himself to pause, making sure he didn’t go fucking rabid—Sam realized that Dean’s blood—it was different.

Demons: they had a taste.

Between the lingering sulfur and charred roast that came with Hellfire, there was something uniquely bitter about the demon blood Sam developed a taste for. Of course, the draw had always been his abilities, becoming more powerful, but when he latched on: Dean’s tingled as it pooled in his mouth. As Sam sucked, and it ran down his throat.

It had an electricity behind it. Maybe it was imbued with the power of a Knight—something unique Sam had never gotten to?

“S-Sammy…” 

Dean’s voice was nothing more than garbled background noise, flippantly dismissed. This took precedence, Sam was too invested in trying to figure out what ‘it’ was.

Was it a feeling, a physical experience or something else on his palette?

Fuck, this was like riding a bike and it shouldn’t have been this easy. But in a way, it wasn’t—Sam was conflicted again, because if it had been any other demon wearing any other meatsuit he wouldn’t be here in the first place! It was the blood in front of him that made it easy, and not just easy...he was obsessed—

“Dammit, Sam!” 

A fist violently yanked his head away, tangled up and locked in his hair. Except, when he was facing Dean head-on, this expression was familiar.

Dean was completely, unapologetically wrecked with arousal.

Sam’s eyes went wide before he blinked at the sight—he had to check—make sure he was seeing clearly and he wasn’t on a euphoric rush of his own. But it was very real.  
  
Instead of the previous mischief, the teasing and raunchy jabs, Dean was beautifully undone. The heavy breathing, the fierce desire in his eyes, even the hint of a blush on his cheeks. Do demons even blush?

It made him cocky.

“Here I thought I was the one enjoying myself…” Sam licked his lips, swiping away any leftover traces and smears. Just as he predicted: Dean’s eyes manically followed. Yes, he dared to push him further: “Was it good for you, too?”

The growl in his throat wasn’t demonic, it wasn’t terror-invoking, but it did shoot a sizzling thrill through every inch of Sam‘s being. This time, when Dean tackled him back down to the bed, he had all the confidence he needed to put up a good fight.  
  
This time, the demon wasn’t out for his blood. All signs pointed to him sticking around, that he wasn’t afraid. And Sam was almost positive that one thing Dean previously ‘feared most’ just turned into a dream come true. It wouldn’t be long until Sam could hold his own, either.

Their first couple rolls turned into crashing lips and wrestling, growing more and more physical by the moment. It was telling that Dean still hadn’t said a word.  
  
It _ was _ risky, Sam _ knew _that he was pushing boundaries when he dove for Dean’s wrist again. But it was justified, it for his own protection—if he kept going head to head with his brother, he needed to level the playing field.

Under the seductive guise of, “C’mon, you like it too,” Sam actually managed (okay, Dean let him) to pin the demon down, straddle his hips and grab hold of his wrist again.

“Maybe I do,” was Dean’s breathless response, licking his lips as Sam glued his mouth back down to a wound that was healing _ much _ too fast. He rolled his hips against Sam’s rear, his dick hard and words shameless, when he said, “Or maybe I don’t…” just to be a jackass. “What do you think?”  
  
Before he withdrew, before he could even _ answer_, Dean’s palm had already closed around Sam’s erection—timing the pumps of his hand with the escalating rhythm of his cock, slotted between Sam’s ass cheeks.  
  
Holy fuck—he was scrambling to breathe—!  
  
Now wasn’t the time, Sam couldn’t show it! It was a fucking _ mircale _ Sam hadn’t sunk his goddamn teeth in, the surge of pleasure struck such a deep chord. He couldn’t let Dean get the upper hand, not while there was still a chance _ to take _ before his window closed. Then he’d gladly (very, very gladly) agree to fucking nonstop, into next week—  
  
With his goal in mind, and the pay-off of ‘later’ Sam regained his footing.

“I think you love it,” Sam was assertive and devious, swiveling down _ and _ up against Dean, unworried about the rough scratch of jeans between them, “You know what else I think?”  
  
This was it—Sam fought valiantly to drain every last droplet of blood from the rapidly-healing scrape, all before it completely closed up.  
  
Still clutching his captive wrist, Sam dipped forward until they were nose to nose, “I really think this will work out. And, ” Sam put on a show—his tongue lavishly running the length of the now-scar-like line, “I _ know _I could make you cum. Just like this. Without even touching your cock.”

“Jesus, Sam!” Dean moaned and arched up off the bed with such force, it nearly sent Sam toppling over. Pulling a fast one, _ again_, Dean used the angle to move underneath Sam’s boxers, finally feeling the weight of his cock rather than stroking the outline through fabric. And Sam wouldn’t fight, he’d indulge. Legs were spreading and clothes were about to fly when Dean’s well-meaning, hungry words, “Never seen this side of you,” rumbled after a fiery kiss.

But they nearly made Sam’s heart stop.

Because all the time he’d been trying to keep up with Dean—the newfound hellfire was fuel: heightening his sarcasm, wit, strength and sex drive—Sam had compensated by bringing his own skeletons out of the closet and back to the limelight.  
  
Not only that, he was celebrating it. This ‘side’ Dean never saw and his self-made excuse of ‘keeping up,’ he’d completely reverted back to an older version of himself.  
  
A version who Dean had _ hated_.  
  
One he refused to be around, to be with, and Sam was too righteous and pompous to let him in.  
  
Until now, Sam imagined utilizing all his life lessons through the years and applying what he knew to find a solution. The demon blood was going to be—supposed to be—supplemental.  
  
The truth was what he feared, it was black and white: he _ was _ a junkie.  
  
He was at his best, he felt at his peak, vibrant, and thriving on demon blood.  
  
The only reason he could hold Dean’s attention was because of his high. Because of the promising potential of their bond, regardless of who was in control. Because a demon was drawn to chaos, sex and spontaneity. All of it boiled down to Sam loving Dean and needing what was inside him, creating something volatile and reckless.  
  
With no in-between, had he made the right choice? It wouldn’t make sense if he was living a lie, never giving Dean an answer. He didn’t want his brother to go back to that time, it would cast Sam’s new life in a light plagued by mistrust and rivalry—but, hell, had Dean really _ seen him _ at all?  
  
Praying he didn’t just fuck up a good thing, that he hadn’t overcompensated and gone too far to where he’d ask questions, Sam tried to press reset.  
  
He had to do something. Dean was looking at him sideways, because even though their bodies were still moving, he refused to meet his eyes.  
  
And to think...after so much preparation, and resolving to throw it all away to live in the moment, it would be a cold twist of fate to have read the situation horribly wrong—

After countless nights together, so many of them on autopilot, it didn’t surprise Sam to find himself now underneath Dean with his hands pinned above his head and their clothing gone. It was Dean’s teeth forcefully biting his collarbone that drew him from his thoughts—who knew what he’d been doing until now?  
  
Without a way to detect what had happened, especially in Dean’s head, he was at a loss when asked, “What’s up, Sammy?”

So Sam blurted out the first thing he thought: “I hate this motel.”

It was one for the record books: Sam claiming the title of being the first to wholly, utterly and completely catch a demon off guard.  
  
Dean’s brows screwed together, his jaw hung open, with the gobsmacked, “_Wha—_?” as he hovered.

Sam…just decided to roll with it.

“I found you in here: broken. I-I thought I talked you down and it was going to get better from there. We made a plan, I thought we’d be okay. Next thing I knew, you died in my arms. Now…we’re something else.” With a newfound tenacity, Sam decided, “Both of us, we’ve been reborn. We’ve transformed in our own ways and I’m…okay. Whatever direction we go from here is fine, and we'll go together. But it’s _ not _ happening in _ this motel._”

Slowly, Dean released him, hands moving to rest on Sam’s shoulders. “I know I’ve got a shit-habit of taking off at the worst times. Maybe that’s why you can’t get it through your head, so I’ll say it once: there’s no tearing us apart this time. You’re mine now.”  
  
Wow—that was something Sam hadn’t expected. Even if Dean delivered it with a hint of authority, his hands cradling Sam’s cheeks took off the edge.  
  
“This place really does suck, doesn’t it? I mean, you’d think housekeeping would’ve cleaned this dump by now.” There was an anomalous gentle way about his voice, when he agreed, “We’ll leave. Pick this up. Somewhere that’s not here, okay? We can go anywhere. Didn't we talk about a beach one time?”

“Yeah. Yeah, we did...” Suddenly, Sam felt a weight lifted but he was slow to move, even when Dean spurred into action—moving to collect their clothes.  
  
If Dean could still hold onto his humanity when he was a full-blown demon, why would Sam have a problem acting human when he was?  
  
Dean was his grounding, his reminder that they’d get through it—they turned their backs on a world filled with heartache, determined to sink them. They’d barely escaped, right before they drowned and this was their time to be free.  
  
Without consequences. _ That _ was supposed to be the best part. With no laws or code to live by, the sky was the limit.  
  
“You know we will...” Sam basked in the picture playing out in front of him—it involved a very naked Dean who made a detour to guzzle a beer from the fridge. “Pick up where we left off.” While unfolding the shirt laying next to him, he mused, “I mean, as long as we’re out of the building we’re out of the motel. So before we book it towards the coast and get our toes in the sand: know the parking lot’s fair game...just saying.”

“I fucking love that idea.” His wicked, yet typical _Dean_ grin flashed again when he doubled back and hauled Sam to his feet. “And the person who thought of it.”  
  
How did he know exactly what Sam needed to hear when he needed to hear it?  
  
“It’s pretty genius.” As his own, special kind of reward, he hauled Dean back into a filthy, obscene all-consuming kind of kiss—confirming exactly how ready he was. While he knew it didn’t need saying, that Dean may even grouse about it, Sam’s heart would ache until he followed through.  
  
The whispered words, “I love you,” dropped as his mouth, ravished Dean’s neck, urgently grabbing handfuls of ass to sweeten the deal. Already hard and needy, Sam lured Dean in with, “I noticed a girl out back who wouldn’t mind us taking the action to her.”  
  
“Thank fuck, I can’t wait anymore. I need to be inside _ both _of you…” It was amazing how Dean lit up like the sun. “And Baby’s better than any motel in the country,” he crooned and he extended his hand, “Let’s go cause some trouble, pet.”

With a beaming smile of his own, Sam took that offered hand that unexpectedly turned into a fireman's hold until he reached his shoes.  
  
Dean bitching about Sam’s carelessness, but still helping him (and helping himself by feeling him up) was the beginning Sam would remember. Probably how Sam would go out of his way making poor small judgment calls—all resulting with cuts and scrapes (that Sam would help Dean by helping himself to) and he was getting stronger each day.  
  
Their human ending may have been tragic, but their new normal was shaping up to be something amazing. In their own twisted way. They were going to be just fine.


End file.
